With a Side of Rust
by BlueSkyScribe
Summary: Knock Out recruits his fellow sports cars into the Cabal of Irresponsibility. Clearly this will end well!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Same continuity as "Here There Be Dandelions" and "Best of Enemies, As Ever We Were". Knock Out and the Autobots on a restored Cybertron.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

"Do I _look _like Volkswagen Beetle?"

Not words that Agent Fowler would normally have found alarming. But then he didn't usually hear them from a thirty foot tall robot with glowing red eyes and five foot long claws, either. This warehouse had been designed to account for the size difference when he met with Ratchet or visiting bots—a desk, chair, and filing cabinet had been set on a wide, elevated platform, looking incongruous. Now, with Knock Out leaning over the railing, almost face- to-face with him, he wondered if it had been such a good idea.

"Do I _look_ like a station wagon? Or a minivan?" Knock Out persisted with that sarcastic tilt to his mouth. "Do I look like an _Aztek?"_

"Not really. Try gluing some feathers on your head and ask me again," Agent Fowler said. "Look, if you don't like what we gave you—"

The former Decepticon turned around, a hand on his hip. "Smokescreen, how would you describe the automotive models our human _friends_ at Unit E have so _generously_ offered us?"

Smokescreen looked up from the handheld game he was playing. "They pretty much suck. Sorry, Agent Fowler."

"Don't apologize to him," Knock Out instructed his fellow Cybertronian, glaring at the human. "He's the one who insulted us with that scrap. Practically an act of war, if you ask _me."_

"Are you serious?! Do you know how many _strings _I had to pull to get you—" Agent Fowler grabbed a piece of paper off his desk and read: "Two motorcycles, ten cars, ten jet planes, three helicopters, six flash drives—okay, the flash drives actually weren't a problem—two unmanned drones, three tanks, a Segway, a hot air balloon, an ambulance, a bus, _and a space shuttle!_ Do you know how much a space shuttle _costs?_ We're talking billions of dollars! With a capital B that rhymes with P that stands for pleading! Pleading with everyone from General Bryce to the Pentagon to authorize the funds!_"_

Knock Out half closed his optics, entirely unsympathetic. "What good would your billions of little green slips of paper be if your planet had been destroyed? You owe us. You owe us _everything._"

_"Really._ 'Cause if I recall correctly _you_ were on the side _trying_ to snuff us. I owe you? For what, getting tossed in your _trunk _that one time?"

"You owe my _team,"_ Knock Out said grandly, gesturing at Smokescreen, the only Autobot in the vicinity.

"You tell 'em, K.O.," Smokescreen said without looking up from his game.

"Anyway, this isn't about _me,_ this is about future generations of Cybertronians. Future generations who deserve an alt mode better than your hilariously misguided offerings. A Hummer? Really?"

"Look, we just grabbed what we found on sale at second-hand lots—and what's wrong with the Hummer? I thought you'd like it."

"First, please refrain from using foul language like 'second-hand lots' in my presence. Second, a Hummer is not a proper automobile, it's a _box_ with wheels on the corners. Third, I am amazed you thought it was appropriate to dump a gas-guzzler on us after an energy shortage nearly wiped out our race. Very sensitive."

"It takes a hell of a lot less energy than the _space shuttle!"_

Knock Out closed his eyes and sighed in exasperation. "Shuttle protoforms _need_ a shuttle to model their alternate mode off of. Smaller aerials need planes or helicopters. Grounders need cars or tanks. We're still trying to come up with something for our beast protoforms now that our native fauna is extinct—but that's not the point. The point is . . . Smokescreen, tell our human friend the point."

"That Pontiac Aztek is fraggin' hideous. Like, seriously, it hurt my optics."

_"Exactly._ As a medic, I can tell you that the first Aztek-based Cybertronian I see is getting put out of its misery."

"C'mooon Knock Out, don't say stuff like that. You're gonna get in trouble."

"Ohhhh, very well," the former Decepticon conceded with a wave of his hand. "I wouldn't _really."_ After a pause he added, "Because they would off themselves before I had the chance."

"What exactly," Agent Fowler ground out over the headache now pounding in his skull, "do you want from me?"

This was apparently the opening Knock Out had been waiting for; he drew himself up and smiled.

"Better automobiles for our impressionable youth, of course. We've compiled a list. Smokescreen. The list." Knock Out held out his hand, gesturing with slight movements of his fingers. Smokescreen set something small and rectangular in his palm, which the shiny red medic then picked up by the corner, pinched between two claws, and dropped in front of Fowler.

"A car dealer's catalogue," the special agent said, opening it.

"We've circled the cars that fit our needs," Knock Out informed him.

"Uh huh . . . uh huh . . . yep." Agent Fowler flipped through the pages. "Just like I thought. Every luxury sports car on the market."

"Except the Lamborghini Veneno," Knock Out said.

"Why not the—?"

He studied his claws. "Too pretentious."

"Look. Knock Out." Fowler massaged his temples. "By the time we got all the other stuff, our budget had dried up. We got what we did 'cause we found good deals. The cars _you _like? There's a reason they're called _luxury_ sports cars. That's code for 'ridiculously expensive.' As much as I would _love _to help you Autobots . . . or whatever . . . out, I just don't have the money to—oh _no."_

General Bryce. Of course he would have to choose _today._

"Well, this is a surprise." The general eyed the two bots as he climbed the stairs. "I didn't know you had company, Bill. And not Ratchet, either."

"Uh, yes. It's an impromptu meeting to . . . further human-Cybertronian relations, sir. This is Knock Out. That's Smokescreen. Bots, this is General Bryce."

"Hey." Smokescreen glanced up briefly.

"Charmed," Knock Out said without interest.

"Ah, yes. The reckless one and the turncoat."

"Hey!" Smokescreen finally wrenched free of the game's hold, staring indignantly from Bryce to Fowler. Knock Out now looked _very_ interested, in a way that made Fowler supremely uncomfortable.

"And here I thought _I_ was the reckless one," Knock Out smiled, the tips of his fingers pressing against his cherry red chassis. "How _disappointing."_

"Hmm." Bryce eyed him like he thought he was _something,_ all right. "I've heard of you. You're the other medic, right?"

"That's right."

"They say you're good."

Knock Out's eyebrows rose a little; surprise and gratitude chased briefly across his face before his well-polished features before they settled into a more usual expression: arrogance with a side order of cocky.

"I'm the _best_._"_

"Good, good. We've been looking for a good source of information about Cybertronian biology."

" . . . oh?" Down went the optic ridges. "And Ratchet hasn't been of any help, hmm? Strange. He _is _a medic as well."

"Ratchet," Bryce said, rocking on his heels, "doesn't seem to appreciate how important this intel is for national security."

_"Which_ nation's security, again?"

Bryce blinked. "The United States', naturally."

"Oh naturally, yes. Is _that_ the one we're in, Smokescreen?" Knock Out turned to his companion. "I thought we were in Canada."

"Uh, no, it's America."

"The United States, he said."

"Well, they're kinda the same thing."

"How informative. How very, very, very informative. Do go on, human. I am simply _agog _to know what aspects of Cybertronian biology you're interested in."

"Everything. Basic physiology, nervous system, weaponry . . . " Bryce unconsciously rubbed his hands together.

Knock Out's eyes narrowed. "All fascinating topics. But I'm afraid I can't help. I thought this was Canada. But seeing as it's not—"

General Bryce's eyes narrowed. "Are you mocking me, robot?"

_"Moi?_ Primus forbid."

The flippant response earned a scowl from Bryce. "I expect a degree of cooperation from you, soldier. Not to mention gratitude, considering your organization's recent requests."

"Ah, but I'm not a soldier, and I'm especially not _your _soldier. As for gratitude, weeeell, not to put too fine a _point_ on it," Knock Out studied his claws before scything them apart with a faint _shhinnk_, "we could take what we need if we felt like it, couldn't we?"

Well, so much for furthering human-Cybertronian relations, Agent Fowler thought. It had been nice while it lasted.

"Uh, K.O. . . ." Smokescreen tentatively set a hand on Knock Out's arm. The red sports car shrugged it off without looking at him.

_"However,_ I know that won't be necessary since you fleshies surely remember how we—the Autobots—saved you from—" He paused, perhaps trying to thinking of an incident that didn't implicate him as an ex-Decepticon. "Unicron. We saved you from Unicron."

"Again with the unicorn thing? Listen—"

Knock Out dropped his facade of cordiality with a sneer. "No, _you_ listen, skinjob—"

"Maybe you'd both like to listen," Ratchet said from across the room, arms crossed, "to some sense."

Knock Out froze for just an instant before turning, smiling brightly. "Hellooo, esteemed colleague!"

"Can I have a word with you outside," Ratchet raised an eyebrow, "esteemed colleague?"

* * *

Next chapter will be up soon. :)

Incidentally, my Tumblr name is blueskyscribe (so you can find me at blueskyscribe DOT tumblr DOT com .) If you want to talk to me or ask me anything, feel free. :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Ratchet waited until Knock Out—and Smokescreen, trailing after them—were out of earshot of the warehouse before he spoke.

"Knock Out." Ratchet crossed his arms. _"What _are you doing here?"

"What are any of us doing here, Ratchet? Ah yes, one of the grand mysteries of life, isn't it! But when I look up at the stars, I can't help but feel—"

"Let me be more specific." Ratchet's voice rose on the last word. "What were you doing sneaking out to harass Agent Fowler when I _thought_ you were watching the 'double creature-feature'?"

"Harass? Oh, I'm hurt." Knock Out gave a little pout. "What's wrong with having a spirited discussion?"

"A spirited discussion with a human, after I _specifically told you_ that you weren't to have contact with organic lifeforms without Auto—without supervision!"

"Ah, but I _had _supervision, old-timer." Knock Out waggled a finger. "Smokescreen here was keeping a close and vigilant eye on me, weren't you, Smokey?"

Knock Out turned toward the younger bot, but received no answer; Smokescreen's attention was wholly focused the glowing screen in front of him as his thumbs tapping like lightning. Knock Out's optics narrowed; he wrenched the game out of Smokescreen's servos and used it to deliver a solid smack to the back of the rookie's helm.

"Knock Ouuut, what the heck! I was LEVELLING!"

"Tell the good doctor what a friendly, sweet, _biddable_ Autoboticon I've been and you'll get it back. Ah-ah!" he admonished as Smokescreen lunged. Knock Out was the smaller of the two, but he managed to stave off his opponent by shoving a hand over his face and holding him at arm's length while hoisting the device out of reach.

"Oh yes, _this _fills me with confidence," Ratchet said sarcastically, watching them wrestle for control. "Oh yes."

Locking his elbow around Knock Out's arm ("Watch the _paint!")_, Smokescreen reclaimed the game. Unfortunately one of them had hit the off button during the scuffle. The blue and yellow Autobot glared at it, then transferred his glare to Ratchet.

"What's the big _deal?_ Knock Out just wanted to talk to Fowler, and that's what he did."

"There's talking and there's nearly causing an interstellar incident!"

"Oh, right. The humans will load up their scary space shuttles and invade us," the shiny red medic scoffed, tilting his arm this way and that as he checked for scrapes. "It will only take them a couple _billion _years to reach us given their level of technology."

"Not. the point," Ratchet ground out. "You burst in there and _insulted_ one of our closest human allies after they have been more than generous—"

"Whoa, put it in neutral, Doc." Smokescreen held up his hands. "Totally respect your P.O.V. and maybe Knock Out could've phrased it nicer but, you know what? _He's right."_

"Oh, I never get tired of hearing those words," murmured Knock Out, crossing his arms in triumph.

"Excuse me? You think that after procuring the—"

"—billion trillion dollar space shuttle, blah blah blah, I know. That's awesome, right? But it seems like they could've set aside a little chunk of that billion trillion for a couple cars that can go more than fifty miles per hour and aren't as ugly as Unicron's aft."

"Smokescreen . . ."

"I know, I know. 'Smokescreen! You're exaggerating!' Okay, I am, I admit it. But I _did_ help save this planet, and our planet, and . . ." He crossed his arms, his twitching doors betraying his nerves. "I'd really like it if some of the new generation kinda . . . looked like me. Y'know?"

Ratchet's scowl shifted into something softer. The medic put a hand on the younger bot's arm, his normally gruff voice infused with a tremor of sparkfelt emotion. "Smokescreen . . ."

"Besides, we're gonna need _way_ more racers if we want to start a league."

The scowl returned. "Smokescreen, get back to base before I turn you into a blue and yellow _toaster oven!_ And that goes for you too, Knock Out!"

"Nice job, idiot!" Knock Out snarled, grabbing the game and aiming another slap at the rookie's head.

"What! What'd I _say?"_

* * *

The warehouse that served as the Autobots' Earth headquarters—really only home to Ratchet these days—was only a short distance away from Agent Fowler's "Autobot office". As Ratchet shooed the two truant bots inside, he was relieved to see that the others hadn't even noticed they'd been gone. The catwalk railing still creaked under Bulkhead's weight as he leaned forward, watching black-and-white zombies stagger towards a black-and-white house. Jack had taken over both the recliner and the bowl of popcorn. Raf had fallen asleep on the arm of the couch, but Miko hunched forward eagerly at the other end. She barely glanced away from the screen as Bulkhead carefully reached out to arrange a blanket around her shoulders, though she did reach up to absently pat his huge fingers.

Bulkhead, at least, could be relied upon, Ratchet thought. True, sometimes that meant "relied upon to break whatever was most important" or "relied upon not to think things through", but still . . . reliable. Maybe tomorrow he could ask the green Autobot to help him smooth things over with Bryce and apologize to Fowler. Humans were often taken aback by Bulkhead's earnestness and reluctant to hurt his feelings, Ratchet found.

"Aren't you going to watch the movie?" the orange and white medic asked Knock Out, who was hanging back by the computer terminal. "Or did you only come here to terrorize humans with your sidekick?"

"I am _not _his sidekick," Smokescreen complained.

Knock Out quelled him with an impatient gesture. "I watched the earlier one, you know I did. _Frankenstein._ 'It's alive!'" His lips gave a quirk of amusement for no reason Ratchet could discern. "But I don't watch zombie movies," he said firmly. Fervently, even.

"Why not? They're awesome." Smokescreen let one shoulder drop, pulling the other high as he shambled around in a circle, clawing at the air. "I want to eat your braaains."

The ruby red medic glared at him. _"No."_

"Smokescreen, would you _please_ shift it down a notch? And you—next time _tell me _before you go haring off."

"Why, so _you _can be my escort? Ha! You can't keep up with me."

"Tonight you were only a few buildings away and I _believe_ my decrepit old gears could've handled that," Ratchet said drily. "Although if you want to stay _far away _from Fowler and Bryce in the future, that's fine by me."

"Bryce." Knock Out rolled the name out thoughtfully, studying the ceiling. "Bryce." His optics swung suddenly towards Ratchet, sharp as a blade. "You haven't been _telling him _anything, have you? About us. Our kind."

"Of course not," Ratchet said, drawing himself up. "I'm not a_ fool."_

"No. You're not." Knock Out relaxed marginally. "All right, then. But I still want those sports cars."

"And I want a new titanium class electron magnifier, but that's not happening either!" Ratchet's tone went right back to its default setting, caustic.

"Aw, Raaaatch!" Smokescreen pleaded.

"NO. If you ask me, we have enough luxury models. In fact, I find myself positively_ relieved _that we won't be adding any more member to this . . . this cabal of irresponsibility."

"Oh, wow. Really? Really, Ratchet?" Smokescreen crossed his arms. "'Cause all sports cars are flighty, right? Just like all tanks are dumb and all helicopters are psycho?"

The Autobot medic snorted. "My statement was based on potential, available role models—present company NOT excepted—not on frame type."

"Personal insults," the rookie groused. "Yeah, that's waaay better." Smokescreen paused as he received a private text message from Knock Out. The red mech was smirking—always good sign. Or a bad one, depending on your point of view. The message was brief, two lines long.

_Hush, newspark._  
_The cabal meets tomorrow._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Bumblebee's scouting missions sometimes lasted weeks—mapping out the grueling Cylihex Canyons had taken upwards of a month, actually—and he inevitably came back with a miscalibrated joint or a jammed axle. Even if he escaped direct injury, his vents were always clogged with dust.

Today, as the ruins of Praxus reared on the horizon, he sent two messages.

To the mainframe, for the benefit of whoever happened to be on monitor duty: _::This is your friendly neighborhood Bumblebee returning from a scintillating survey of the Palisade Plateaus, ready to report amazing sights such as dirt! Debris! And far too many plants with titanium thorns!_

To Knock Out: ::_I'm back!::_

The medic's reply was succinct. _::About time.::_

Pitted with holes and laced with cracks, the byways leading into Praxus were no easy drive, especially not for a low-slung sports car. But it was Bumblebee's first _real_ drive in two and a half weeks, and to him it was heaven.

The city rose and sank out of view as a series of hills tested Bumblebee's engine. By the time he reached the long straightaway leading into the heart of Praxus, a tiny speck of red was speeding towards him, accompanied by the thrum of an engine. With their combined speed, it didn't take long for the red sports car to reach him. Knock Out drove past the black and yellow Urbana, transformed and swirled in one fluid movement, and slipped back into vehicle mode without slowing down.

"Still showing off, I see," Bumblebee said as the Aston Martin pulled up beside him, matching his speed. "You _could've_ just made a U-turn."

"Shut up and drive, Bug."

They took an off-ramp and looped around the city instead of heading straight in, reveling in the warmth of the road under their treads, the dust that spun and roiled behind them, the breeze whipping over their windscreens, the sunlight that gleamed in blinding swells on Knock Out's well-polished hood in contrast to the golden glow of sunlight on the textured dust coating Bumblebee's chassis. Bumblebee revved his engine a few times, pulling ahead provocatively, but Knock Out refused to be drawn into a race. ("You're drifting to the left. I don't race with casualties.") So they just drove.

Eventually Knock Out broke the companionable silence, filling in the black and yellow Autobot with the latest news. Updates on the development of the pre-forms, hopefully soon to become viable protoforms. (Faster development than expected.) Who was flirting, 'facing, and otherwise making a spectacle of themselves. (Many, many theories, more salacious than accurate.) The latest info on Shockwave and Starscream. (None.) Wheeljack's latest crazy invention. (The transmatter duplicator.) The damage caused by the explosion of Wheeljack's latest crazy invention. (Loss of most of the west wall of his laboratory, which had turned out to be load-bearing.) What Bulkhead was busy constructing. (A building to replace the one that had suddenly lost a load-bearing wall.) Whom Ultra Magnus was currently the most peeved with. (Wheeljack.)

"Although I'm a close second," Knock Out said airily, "and hope to unseat Wheeljack for that honor any day now."

"I'd expect nothing less from you, Knock Out, and I'm sure Ultra Magnus will be proud that you're giving it your all," Bumblebee said, door handles flexing in amusement. "Any new arrivals yet?"

"You mean starships? Other Cybertronians? _No."_ Knock Out heaved the last word out in a petulant sigh. "Or if there are, they haven't made contact. I know space is _big, _but you'd think more ships would have warp drives."

"Well, they take a lot of energy. I'm sure _someone_ will arrive soon. They have to, right?"

"Hrrrm, hopefully." Knock Out transformed as they reached the crest of a hill. Bumblebee followed suit. The remains of Praxus' towers and skyscrapers stood like skeletons, but somewhere in the midst of them was their own little crazy, functional headquarters. Their home.

"Here." Knock Out tossed him a polishing rag. "You're filthy."

"Thanks for pointing that out, I hadn't noticed. Strangely enough, there weren't any washracks or oil baths out in the middle of nowhere. Weird, right?" Despite the banter, it was a relief to scrub the grime off his finish.

"You're all scratched up," Knock Out said, sounding more disapproving than sympathetic. And then, abruptly, "Fowler isn't giving us any racing frames."

Bumblebee paused in his attempts to clean out his elbow joint. Knock Out had actually called Agent Fowler by name rather than sarcastically referring to him as "our human _friend_ at Unit E." This was _serious. _ "But they did provide _some _cars, right?"

Knock Out made a restless sound, crossing his arms. "No sports models," he repeated. He looked squarely at Bumblebee, his red irises barely visible as the sunset reflected in his optics. "We're meeting tonight."

"What, you and Agent Fowler?"

"Nooo, that would just be ridiculous, now wouldn't it? Also, I already tried that," he admitted. "No. We. Smokescreen. Myself. You." The last word was just a little bit tentative, not _quite_ a question.

Bumblebee hesitated. Racing alt modes were fabulously impractical at the best of times, but especially on a planet which currently had only one functional loop of roads, the one they were standing on. Bulkhead had fixed it up after Smokescreen started to go completely stir-crazy. But if a developing protoform ached for the sleek lines, the glory of acceleration, the joy of a road spinning away under friction-heated tires . . . Well, why not? Their species had _tried_ "practical" and ended up with the caste system.

"All right," said Bumblebee. "So where are we meeting?"

Some of the tension ebbed out of the medic's shoulders. "I'll send you the coordinates. _After _I give you a full tune up. Did you know one of your tail-lights is out? And stop scrubbing your elbow, Bug, it's only driving the dirt further in."

"I missed you, too." Bumblebee tossed the crumpled cloth at him.

Snorting, Knock Out picked it up between the tips of two fingers, holding it as far away from his chassis as possible as though the dirt was contagious. "Right, whatever. If you can stop _oozing_ your Autobot emotions at me for two seconds, we can go back."

Bumblebee smiled.

They went back.

* * *

Some hours later, Knock Out looked up as Bumblebee entered an almost intact room in one of the ruins near the base. "Ah, there you are! Late, tsk tsk!"

"Knock Out, you didn't touch my game-pad, did you? It's broken."

"Definitely _not."_

"Me neither!" added Smokescreen.

Bumblebee looked from one to the other, optics narrowing in suspicion. "You do realize this is irreplaceable, right? It's pre-War and I can't just get another because, oh, _our planet is a festering ruin."_

"A-hem," Knock Out coughed into his fist. "Focus, Bee, focus. This is important." He tapped something narrow and silver on the tabletop. "I hereby call the first meeting of the Cabal of Irresponsibility to order!"

"The _what?_ The _what_ now? And what are you holding?"

"A laser scalpel. We don't have a gavel."

"Why, exactly, are we the Cabal of Irresponsibility?"

"It's catchy. It holds the attention. And most importantly, it will drive Ratchet crazy. So. Any objections? Other suggestions?"

Smokescreen raised his hand. "Actually, I was thinking we could call ourselves—"

"No. All right, first item on our agenda." Knock Out lowered his datapad sharply as a fourth bot entered the room at a leisurely saunter. "Well . . . Wheeljack! This is a SURPRISE."

"Hey, Red." The ex-Wrecker dropped into a chair, slouching with one arm over the back of it. "Smokey said we're organizing a club or something."

"It's not a club, it's a _cabal._ A _top secret _cabal."

Smokescreen held his hands up to ward off the medic's venomous stare. "C'mon, Knock, cut it with the creepy Decepticon intimidation tactics. We're sports cars, he's a sports car . . ."

_"Is _he?" Knock Out demanded, his optics flicking up and down Wheeljack in judgment. "Or is he a bot who merely turns _into _a sports car?"

"Didn't realize I needed to bring my credentials," Wheeljack said, swinging his feet onto the table.

"Knock Out, he's already here, so—"

"What's your top speed?" Knock Out shot out.

"Two hundred miles, give or take." Wheeljack looked either bland or amused, it was hard to tell.

"Zero to sixty?"

"Three point three seconds."

"Horsepower?"

"Over five hundred mustangs under the hood. Good enough, Red?"

"Hrrrnnn." Knock Out crossed his arms. _"Fine,_ you're in. But don't go blabbing to the Wreckers or your two-wheeler sparkmate about it."

"She's _not_ my sparkmate—"

"Ha! I've heard _that_ one before!"

"—and I'm not a narc. Lips are sealed."

"Gooood." Knock Out picked up his datapad. "All right, first order of business—election of officers."

"That seems . . . weirdly formal," Bumblebee said.

"Not at all. Even a small organization works best if everyone's roles are clearly defined. How do you think Megatron managed for so long?"

"Yeah, and how'd that work out for him?"

" . . . moving _on!_ First post: president."

"Let me guess," snorted Smokescreen. "You want it to be you."

"Not at all. I've never been comfortable in command posts." Knock Out leaned back in his chair. "Actually, Smokescreen, I would like to nominate you."

"Whoa—seriously?"

"Seriously." Knock Out laced his fingers together. "Would anyone care to second the nomination?"

"ME!" Smokescreen's hand shot into the air.

"You—No, you can't nominate yourself. Anyone _else?"_ Knock Out nudged Bumblebee's elbow.

"Um. Sure." He had the strangest friends. They were sort of awesome.

"Nomination proposed and seconded! All in favor?" Three hands raised—Smokescreen's, rapidly; Bumblebee's, hesitantly; Knock Out's confidently. The red mech looked pointedly at Wheeljack, but he continued to lounge. He did, however, raise an eyebrow.

"Are we gonna go through this for every single bot?"

"Well, there's only three of us," Knock Out pointed out. "Or four, rather." He frowned suddenly at his data pad, whipping out a stylus and scribbling.

"C'mon Wheeljack, get into the spirit of things. It's fun!" Smokescreen looped an arm around the Wrecker's shoulder.

"Shooting targets is fun. Bureaucracy is torture."

"All _right,"_ Knock Out groused, "to satisfy our new, _unasked for_ member, I'll just read off my suggestions. Everyone happy? Wheeljack? Are you happy?"

"Ecstatic."

"Smokescreen - President. As we've already established. Bumblebee - Special Operations or, if you want to get fancy, 'Spec Ops'. Anything involving gathering information, spying, or sneaking is your responsibility."

"Cool."

"Any objections? No? Moving on. Wheeljack, despite the fact that you gave me less than thirty seconds notice, I've thought of something for you—Research and Development."

"Sounds like a desk job."

"Right. A desk on which you're building things that will explode."

"I'm liking this club already."

"Good. That leaves me. Second-in-Command, Science Officer, and Secretary of Internal Affairs."

There was a brief, thoughtful silence.

"Isn't Second-in-Command more of a military thing? I mean, if Smokescreen's president, shouldn't you be vice-president?"

"More of a medic than a scientist, aren't you, Red? Y'know, I was actually in the Autobot Science Division for a while . . ."

"How come you get three titles and rest of us only get one? And 'Secretary of Internal Affairs', what does that even mean?"

"It means I keep you delinquents in line!" Knock Out snapped, slamming down his datapad. "Oh, fine, FINE, I'll be Vice-President and Secretary of . . . just being SECRETARY."

Another pause.

"He _does_ have really nice handwriting," Bumblebee acknowledged.

_"Thank_ you. Now first off, I thought we could—"

"Aw, scrap." Smokescreen guilty as his communicator started beeping. "Sorry, K.O., I gotta head out. I just remembered I'm supposed to be on monitor duty."

"Nothing like a call from Ultra Magnus to jog the memory," Bumblebee said cheerfully.

Wheeljack waved as Smokescreen sped out. "See ya, El Presidente."

"Really? During our first meeting?" Knock Out complained.

Bumblebee raised his hand. "Oh! I have a proposal, Mr. Vice-President!"

"The floor recognizes our Special Ops agent," Knock Out said, lacing his fingers together.

"Right, I was thinking that we could launch a special investigation into who _broke my game-pad."_

Knock Out clicked the ends of his index fingers together. "You know what, I just realized I need to transcribe my notes." Knock Out rapped the laser scalpel against the table. "Meeting adjourned."

"Are you _sure,_ Mr. Vice-President? Because I'm sure with our combined skills and knowledge, we could get to the bottom of—"

"MEETING ADJOURNED!"


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **

If you've seen Predacons Rising, you'll note that there's some canon divergence right near the end. (You will know it when you see it.) I went back and forth on whether I wanted to totally adhere to the canon or not; in the end I went with "not", for logistical reasons and because of a few ideas for future stories.

MOST of "Predacons Rising" still fits in with the canon of this fic, though, and is considered to have happened.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

"Now _that's _what I call a sweet set of wheels. Look at that profile . . ."

"Pfft, with that ridiculous spoiler on the back? I don't think so. But check out this Bentley. Va-vroom!"

"Not bad, kid, but gimme a Ferrari any day of the week. Yeah . . . a low, sleek body, nice slim pair of headlights . . ."

"What is it with you and low clearance, Wheeljack?"

"He just wants someone with an alt shorter than his."

"Hush now, new-sparks, listen to your elders and betters. A nice chassis is all well and good, but accessories make the auto. A custom paint job, a quad of sweet rims, mmm . . ."

The second meeting of the Cabal of Irresponsibility was in full swing, although the Committee for the Procurement of Sports Cars (consisting of all four founding members) had diverted from its stated goal of determining exactly which cars they wanted to procure. The committee's _new_ goal, apparently, was to lounge around in their secret base ("NOT a clubhouse," Knock Out had sternly corrected Wheeljack) ogling the chassis of Earth models and stealing car magazines from one another.

That wasn't to say that they hadn't achieved _anything_, though. They'd "liberated" a few more chairs from Autobot base for their use, had approved the President's proposal that they create a secret handshake, had _also_ approved the Vice-President-and-Secretary's proposal that they set up a secret comm line, and had created the Secrets and Means Committee.

"Y'know, I've been thinking of getting a new paint job," Smokescreen said. "Maybe something with flames . . ."

"But everyone does flames, Smokescreen," Bumblebee pointed out.

"Uh, _yeah, _because they're awesome!" He turned a page. "So how're we gonna get these, again?"

"Hmm?" Knock Out tore his attention away from a delightfully _sassy_ Maserati convertible. "Oh, right. The floor is now open to discussion." He set the magazine aside (but not before folding down the corner of the page).

"If Unit E won't give us sports cars, maybe we can get them from some other humans," Smokescreen suggested. "Like, as a donation. We _did _save their planet."

"But humanity doesn't even know about us," Bumblebee pointed out.

"And that's the way it should stay," Knock Out said firmly. "But some of them know already. What about that human femme?"

"You mean June Darby?" Wheeljack leaned back in his chair. "I get the impression that nurses don't make too many credits."

"Sad but true," Bumblebee confirmed. "I doubt if she could even afford one sports car. I mean, have you seen her own car?"

"Hmm." Knock Out leaned on his hand. "Well, what about your human pet? I mean friend."

"Thanks for trying." Bumblebee patted his arm. "The kids have even less money. They're dependent on their parents at that age."

"You _guys._ I just had a brainstorm," Smokescreen announced. "We are going about this all wrong."

"Whatcha got, Smokey?" Wheeljack asked.

"Okay. So we're talking about getting racing models to Cybertron for the protoforms, riiight?" Collective nodding. "But what if instead of bringing the vehicles to Cybertron—here comes the brilliant part—we take the protoforms _to the vehicles?"_

Bumblebee straightened up in his chair. "That . . . could work! If we snuck them onto an upscale car lot in the middle of the night . . ."

He trailed away, because Wheeljack and Knock Out had finished exchanging glances and were now very clearly fighting laughter.

"Have you ever _seen_ a protoform?" Knock Out asked, highly amused.

"Not these young things," Wheeljack grinned. "They're from the last generation."

"Ahhh, that's _right._ I always forget how young you really _are,_ Bee." Knock Out flashed a superior smile that made Bumblebee scowl. Smokescreen looked even more peeved.

"What, you can't believe _he's_ from the last generation of Cybertronians but you can believe that _I_ am?" he demanded. "And what's _wrong_ with my idea? They'd have such an incredible selection!"

"What's wrong with it," Knock Out said, "is that protoforms are skittish, not quite sentient, and almost impossible to control. At least," he corrected himself, "almost impossible to control without being drugged into a stupor."

"Not quite _sentient?_ What do you mean? I mean—they're Cybertronians!" Bumblebee objected.

"Bumblebee," Wheeljack said, "what's your very first memory?"

"My first memory? It's . . . I was standing on a terrace, watching these two bots talking on the street below me. A big blocky red bot and a black and white one."

"And were you a protoform?"

The black and yellow mech frowned. "No, I had my alt already. I don't remember being a protoform at all."

"Right. Nobody remembers their protoform stage. Whatever's goin' on in their processors, it gets overwritten as they learn. About other Cybertronians. About how fire is hot. About what's good to eat and what ain't. About life."

"So . . . they're kind of like human toddlers?" Bumblebee asked.

"No, no," Knock Out interjected, waving a hand. "They don't go around spewing out cutesy little phrases. They're ignorant, impossible to reason with, and have no sense of societal niceties."

"But . . . that's what . . . Never mind." Most of Knock Out's knowledge of humanity came from television; Bumblebee tactfully let the subject drop.

"And my, oh my," the red mech went on, smirking, "it did make for some _interesting _times when one of the _larger _new-sparks wandered into the market before learning you have to _pay_ for the goods."

Smokescreen blinked. "What did the shopkeepers—venders?—do when that happened?"

"Gave them the stuff," Wheeljack answered . . . at the same time that Knock Out said, "Gave them a few good punches."

The two older bots eyed each other, then Knock Out turned back to Smokescreen. "Well, let's just say new-sparks were given a _great _deal more leeway than a mature bot would get. Punching qualifies as leeway," he added, giving Wheeljack a defiant look, "in places where shooting thieves was the common practice."

"That's so fragged up."

"No one asked you. _Getting back on topic,_ herding a horde of uncontrollable protoforms through a space bridge to Earth seems to me to be an idea with certain _flaws_. Besides," he added briskly, "imprinting on Earth automobiles is one thing, but I don't want them imprinting on Earth _culture._ Not at that stage of development."

"Fiiiine," Smokescreen sighed. "So what do we do?"

"Y'know, there's more ways to get cars than with money—" Wheeljack began.

"Are we talking about bridging in and helping ourselves?" Knock Out suggested with a certain amount of hope in his voice.

"Knock Out, that's _stealing,"_ Bumblebee said, crossing his arms.

_"Debatable, _and anyway it's for a good cause."

"Okay, let's have a vote. All in favor of taking vehicles from humans without payment? All against? Uh huh . . . uh huh. Mr. Secretary, please let the minutes show that the vote was one-to-three against, and that we should never bring up that suggestion again."

Knock Out grumbled under his breath . . . but he did update the minutes.

"So like I was saying before Red cut in," Wheeljack said, unperturbed, "the main problem is that Agent Fowler can't get the money together, right? But if we offer something good enough, his superiors will cough up the dough."

"Offer something? Like what?" Smokescreen asked.

"I can build something. Like, I dunno, munitions—"

"Given them our _weapons?_ Are you _insane?"_

"Relax, Red. Doesn't have to be weapons, it could be a new kind of energy converter or—"

"No. NO. We are not giving _humans_ any of our tech!" Bumblebee put a hand on Knock Out's arm; he shook it off as his voice lowered to a hiss. "Not now, not ever!"

Smokescreen grinned out of nerves rather than mirth, at the former Decepticon's sudden vitriol. "C'mon, Knock . . . You get along with humans. Miko, Raf . . ."

"Two out of seven billion," he snapped. "Most of them ready and willing to turn on us. Most of them thinking we're about a sentient as a . . . a socket wrench."

"Citation needed," Smokescreen said under his breath.

_"What?"_

Confronted by a piercing red glare, Smokescreen faltered. "It's, uh, it's this thing you say because . . . I don't know why, it's just something people say."

"Something _humans_ say, you mean," Knock Out sneered, but his tone was less caustic than before.

"I'm not sayin' we should send our blueprints to every human out there," Wheeljack said patiently. "Just to people we trust. Ones we know won't pass 'em around. It'll be top-secret."

"Wheeljack." Knock Out shuttered his optics, dragging his hands down his face in a gesture of exhaustion before opening his eyes. "How many 'top-secret' projects, Autobot or Decepticon, do you think were _actually _top-secret by the end of the war?"

Wheeljack was silent a moment. "All right, tradin' tech is out. Where's that leave us?"

"Extremely frustrated," Knock Out grumbled, flopping back in his chair.

"Well, what about us?" Bumblebee suggested after a moment's silence. "We all have sports car alts. And that's how protoforms are really _meant _to model their own mode, right? Imprinting off other Cybertronians. If we set up shifts . . ."

"Ye-eees, but, ah, I really do need to be present when other bots are at the hot spot. To supervise. I _am_ sort of . . . responsible for them, as your medic."

He looked slightly embarrassed about it. He didn't bring up the fact that he wasn't crazy—that none of them were crazy—about sharing their alt modes with a slew of other bots. Uniqueness was highly valued in Cybertronian society.

"Still, that's not a _bad _idea, and perhaps if we went out there frequently enough—ah, hang on. I'm getting a comm." He scowled suddenly. "It's from _Magnus._ 'Be in my office, ten minutes.' Wonderful." He glared around at them. "Which one of you _tattled, _if I might ask?"

"Don't look at me," Wheeljack said. "Anyway, what can he complain about? All we've been doin' so far is talking. No harm in that, right? It's not against the rules."

"Anything Ultra Magnus doesn't like is 'against the rules.' I think he makes them up as he goes along," Knock Out grumbled. But the Wrecker's words did give him hope. He could play off the Cabal as a little sports car appreciation club if he had to. And given the amount of time they'd spent on those magazines, that was almost the truth. Probably he was just in for a lecture on shirking or something.

"Well, with your permission, Mr. President—"

"President Smokescreen. Call me President Smokescreen."

"With your permission, President Smokescreen, I think we can declare the meeting adj—"

"Call me President Smokescreen, Supreme Emperor of Awesome."

" . . . no."

"Aw, come on! Pleeease?"

"Smokescreen, that is a completely ridiculous—hang on, another comm." Knock Out checked it. For a second his expression was blank, then he was pushing himself to his pedes and hurrying for the door. "Well, sayonara. I've got to get going. Until next time."

"Uh." Smokescreen exchanged glances with Bumblebee and Wheeljack, who looked perplexed. "Aren't you going to adjourn the meeting?"

Knock Out turned around, grabbed the laser scalpel, and knocked it against the table. "Meeting adjourned." And off he streamed.

He was already rereading the second message from Magnus.

_::Be on time for once. I don't want you to keep Optimus waiting.::_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Bumblebee caught up with him before he reached Autobot HQ. "What's going on?"

Knock Out told him.

_"Both _of them?" Bumblebee's eyes widened. "What did you _do?"_

"Nothing!" Knock Out threw his hands in the air. "At least, nothing I can think of. At least, nothing I can think of that was _that_ bad."

He tried to remember when Optimus and Ultra Magnus had last teamed to play good-cop/bad-cop. (Or to be more accurate I'm-very-disappointed-in-you-cop/bad-cop.) Hadn't it been—yes—when he'd snuck through the space bridge for a little street racing and had run that human off the road? But that had been months ago. Tending to the next generation took up so much of his time these days, it wasn't as though he even had time to get into trouble. Much.

"I guess I'll know more about my nefarious crimes after the meeting," Knock Out said finally, giving a light shrug.

"Want me to wait for you?"

"Ready to break down the door in my defense? Appreciated, but no, that's okay."

"Look at the bright side," Bumblebee said.

"What bright side?"

"I'm thinking, I'm thinking."

"Pfft." Knock Out stopped in front of the appropriately massive door to Ultra Magnus' office. "Here goes. If I'm in there more than an hour, send in the Interstellar Guard."

"There isn't an Interstellar Guard anymore."

"Well, scrap."

* * *

"Commander Magnus, _sir,"_ Knock Out greeted the Second-in-Command as he breezed in, his drawl making the "sir" waver on the edge of insubordination. "And our fearless leader." Knock Out saluted Optimus with a flourish. "You called?"

"We wanted to talk with you, Knock Out," Optimus said in that solemn, gentle way of his.

"Have a seat, Doctor." Ultra Magnus gestured towards a chair in front of his desk.

Knock Out sat, idly wondering if the order to sit was meant to emphasize his smaller stature compared to his superior officers. Possibly. Ultra Magnus knew how to play the game when it came to keeping his soldiers in line. It wasn't his fault that Knock Out was a well-versed opponent. (Optimus, of course, did not even know there was a game, let alone how to play it.)

"So. How can I help you?" Knock Out flashed a smile upward.

"We've received a report—" Ultra Magnus began, all constrained disapproval, but he instantly fell silent when Optimus started to speak.

"I understand you visited Earth recently," he said in his calm rumble.

So Ratchet had let the turbo-fox out of the bag. So much for solidarity amongst the medical profession. "That's right. For movie night."

"I'm glad you're reaching out to others, particularly the children."

"Well, you know," Knock Out said vaguely.

"I understand you also visited Agent Fowler."

"Indeed," Knock Out said lightly even as he internally winced in embarrassment. He respected, even liked, Prime. But being corrected by him was like being slowly beaten to death with a bag of feathers. Give him a straightforward Magnus lecture any day. "I thought I'd give our human friend at Unit E a visit. In the interest of furthering human-Cybertronian relations."

"A visit or a shakedown?" Ultra Magnus demanded, no longer able to keep silent. "According to this report, you demanded more vehicles from Unit E and issued thinly veiled threats when refused."

Knock Out studied his claws. "I promise that any threats I make in the future will be straightforward and plainspoken, to avoid confusion."

"Knock Out . . . " Ultra Magnus' voice dropped an octave.

But Optimus simply sighed a little, one of those sighs that cut straight to the spark.

Knock Out abandoned the study of his nails to glare defiantly up at the two bots. "Listen. We need more frame-types so I took a chance and asked for them. It didn't pan out, but it was worth a shot."

"Regardless of the legitimacy of your concerns," Optimus said carefully—honestly, there were times when Knock Out understood why Megatron had spent millennia trying to get under Prime's plating, that unflinching calm was downright annoying at times—"Your conduct alarmed General Bryce."

"I'm sorry he let himself become alarmed," Knock Out said by way of non-apology, his eyes drifting over to the hook that had replaced Ultra Magnus' right hand, as they sometimes did. "It was a learning experience for all parties involved, no doubt about that."

"We're sorry he feels that way too," Ultra Magnus said drily, "since he's now rethinking the entire funding situation."

"What funding situation?" Knock Out asked, still gazing at the hook. Then realization hit and the world dropped away. "Not for the _vehicles!_ But we _need _those!"

"Yes," Ultra Magnus said pitilessly, "we did."

"But . . . but . . ." Knock Out clutched his helm with one hand as he made desperate little gestures with the other.

"Sit down, Doctor."

Ah, so the chair was a _test._ One which he'd failed. Frag, he didn't even remember jumping to his feet. Knock Out sat back down and forced a smile. A bright smile. "All right. Point made. I'll apologize to General Bryce. A sincere apology." Sincere sounding, anyway.

"That won't be necessary," Optimus said. "General Bryce simply needs some reassurance."

"Reassurance. Certainly." What did that even mean? It didn't matter. They needed those damn vehicles and Knock Out was going to get them, even if it meant debasing himself in front of a nasty little fleshbag. "What kind of reassurance does our small organic ffff-friend require?"

"Simply to look around and satisfy himself, and his superiors, as to what the vehicles will be used for."

"Look around? Around . . . around _Cybertron?"_ This time Knock Out managed not to leap to his pedes, but it was a near thing. "Ah, forgive me, Prime, but, ah, doesn't that seem a bit _rash? _Not to mention dangerous to the little thing, I mean the atmosphere not being compatible with the human respiratory system and all that . . ."

"General Bryce is a trained soldier and I feel confident that he will take sufficient precautions," Optimus said.

"But can we _trust_ him?" the medic asked. As far as he was concerned, this question was rhetorical. As far as he was concerned, the answer was a resounding no. Miserable little organic scraplet, blackmailing his way onto Cybertron. "What does Ratchet say?"

"Ratchet agrees that his cooperation is necessary," Ultra Magnus said. "And he'll have an escort at all times."

"Not _me!"_ Knock Out recoiled.

"No, no," Optimus reassured him. "Though I know you will do your best to make him feel welcome."

From Megatron, Pit, from _Magnus _a statement like that could only have been an implied threat—_you WILL make him feel welcome or else—_but coming from Optimus it had the ring of innocent sincerity. He honestly was sure that a belligerent ex-Decepticon would treat Bryce as an honored guest. It was at moments like these that Knock Out understood how a bot who was, by Decepticon standards, sentimental and weak, had inspired and led an army.

He swallowed. "Well, of course, Prime. I can't, in all honesty, say that I'm _thrilled_ about the idea, but I'll do my best."

"I knew I could rely on you, my friend," Optimus Prime beamed, and Knock Out once again found himself focusing on Magnus' hook as embarrassment surged through his systems. If they'd _actually _been friends, Knock Out would have told him to stop gushing his Autobot emotions all over him. But leaders, no matter how amicable, were _not _friends.

"Of course you can always count on me," he said. "Glad to hear I won't have to chaperone him, though."

"Frankly," Ultra Magnus took up the thread, his blue eyes angling down towards the red mech, "we don't want you anywhere near him." Ouch. Frank indeed. Good old Magnus. "You'll avoid him as much as possible, and that's an order."

"Yes, sir." Knock Out offered the honorific without irony or sarcasm for a change, to reward the only Autobot who seemed to be aware that the chain of command existed, let alone that it was important. Although, admittedly, this only resulted in Ultra Magnus giving him a look of deep suspicion.

"Aside from when he's at the hot spot, of course," Magnus added, "in which case you, in addition to his escort, will accompany him."

A minute can be a very short time or a very long unit of time. In this instance, the minute of silence that followed Ultra Magnus' remark was only slightly shorter than infinity.

"What?" the medic said at last.

"That is one of the main reasons he's coming to Cybertron," Optimus explained. "So he can confirm that we're using the vehicles for non-combative purposes."

Knock Out crossed his arms and lowered his helm to his chest, taking a deep in-vent. "Permission to speak freely."

Optimus frowned slightly. "I would hope that you would always feel comfortable speaking your mind, Knock Out."

The ex-Decepticon tapped one of his fingers on the silver casing of his arm. And waited.

"Permission granted," Ultra Magnus said.

"I am not at all comfortable," Knock Out said immediately, "letting a _stranger_ near the hot spot at this _critical _stage. Especially not an alien."

"Knock Out, I assure you that General Bryce will be briefed fully beforehand to ensure that he doesn't accidentally—"

"I'm not worried about accidentally," Knock Out interrupted, and his voice only spiked in volume for a moment. "I'm worried about on purpose."

Ultra Magnus' eyes narrowed. "You're suggesting what exactly? Sabotage?"

"I'm suggesting that Bryce's sudden, convenient attack of _nerves_ is nothing more than an excuse to collect data on us. I only talked to him for five minutes and he was already fishing for information on our biology."

"And is that necessarily a problem?" Optimus asked. The medic gave him such an incredulous look that he clarified, "After all, we have learned much from our human allies. Is it so strange that they wish to learn more from us? Or about us?"

"I think," Knock Out said, his words tumbling over each other as he leaned forward, "that humanity's first instinct is to fear us, their second is to dissect us, and their third is to make weapons out of us. And I do not want _that human_ anywhere near my charges."

"But you don't actually have any proof of ill-intent," Optimus said gently. "And General Bryce has worked with us in the past. Has it occurred to you that he may just be curious?"

"But . . ." The former Decepticon tried to reign himself in, hands folding into fists and his voice rising only slightly. "But even if _he_ doesn't mean any harm, the information won't _stop_ with him, it'll be sent up the chain of command. Whoever gets their fleshy little digits on it is going to be curious, all right, curious about how our insides fit together or which kind of plasma blast kills us most easily!" He turned to appeal to Ultra Magnus. "Please, Commander. _Sir._ Our first peace-time generation. How can we risk them?"

Ultra Magnus sighed. "Because we have to, Doctor."

"You really think he won't provide the vehicles unless . . . ?"

"Precisely."

The medic's expression became bitter. "What a dear _friend_ the little creature is, clearly."

"I promise you," Optimus said, "that we will maintain every precaution with regards to the pre-forms."

"They're almost ready to separate," the doctor muttered. "They'll be at the protoform stage soon."

"And they will be protected as well," the Autobot leader assured him. "We are simply glad of your cooperation."

Knock Out was silent. He had never been the burliest or strongest 'Con on the _Nemesis, _not by a long shot, but he had managed quite nicely because he could _read _people. And if he'd read that human, Bryce, correctly, he wouldn't trust him as far as he could throw him. Oh, he didn't expect Bryce to pull out a blaster and start mowing down the vulnerable sparklets, but information in the wrong hands would do a lot more danger in the long-term. The Decepticons had had a lot of scientists who were "just curious" too. Their curiosity had culminated in the creation of a variety of chemical weapons that even Knock Out found unpleasant to contemplate.

"You don't have it," he said.

The two bots look at him in confusion and Ultra Magnus said, "What?"

"My cooperation. You don't have it."

Optimus and Ultra Magnus exchanged looks.

"You listen to me, soldier," Ultra Magnus began, and Knock Out leaned forward defiantly to meet the challenge. Optimus hastily intervened.

"Knock Out, if you're truly not comfortable being around Bryce, of course we won't ask that of you." Optimus had always believed that giving Knock Out plenty of space was the best way to help him acclimate. "We will find someone else to escort him to the hot spot."

"He's not going to the hot spot," Knock Out said evenly. "I'm not going to allow it."

Optimus stared down at the red mech with the gleaming paintjob and gleaming eyes, at a loss for how to respond.

Ultra Magnus, on the other hand, always had a response. "Are you defying orders, soldier?"

"I'm not a soldier, I'm a medic, your medic. And that hot spot is officially under my care. It's _mine._ And I protect what's mine."

"I'm glad you feel such a strong connection to it and the new lives," Optimus said, and that was the truth. It was gratifying to see the red mech motivated by something other than his vanity or his personal pleasure. "However, I'm afraid that is not your decision to make."

"In fact, it's _gross insubordination,"_ Ultra Magnus added, disapproval radiating off of him.

_"Really?_ I think you'll find you're wrong on both counts. It _is_ my decision to make and it's my duty—the very opposite of insubordination. 'Medics shall act as they deem fit within the scope of care for and protection of their charges, limited only by orders originating from superiors in their own chain of command,'" Knock Out rattled off.

Magnus' jaw was so tight it looked like it might break. "Which means you will still capitulate once we contact the 'superior in your own chain of command', namely Ratchet."

Knock Out studied his claws. "I outrank Ratchet in this matter."

"You do not," Ultra Magnus said with great deliberateness, "outrank Ratchet in this matter or any other. Ratchet, I will remind you, is the Chief Medical Officer. If you think your title from the Decepticon chain of command carries over, you are very, very wrong."

Knock Out didn't reply. He turned his optics towards Optimus.

And Optimus had a sudden memory of those first weeks after the defeat of Unicron, when the conversations between Knock Out and the rest of Team Prime had been unfailingly polite and unfailingly careful, as everyone nonverbally broadcast how wonderful it was that they were all friends now, ha ha, and everything was just peachy and, yes, it had been exhausting and very, very awkward for everyone involved, but especially for Knock Out. Hanging back on the periphery of every conversation or disappearing for days at a time to concentrate on healing the severely injured Ultra Magnus, he had hardly seemed the same bot who had once had a quip for every battle and, indeed, had once informed Optimus that he had "sweet rims."

He seemed more confused by Optimus as a leader than he ever had as an enemy. Leaders who didn't need to be saluted when they entered the room, who objected to being called "my liege" or "my lord", were clearly outside Knock Out's frame of reference. Mostly he had avoided Prime. So Optimus had been surprised when Knock Out actually approached him one day and asked, quite diffidently, to see a list detailing the chain of command.

"I only know you and Commander Magnus," Knock Out had explained. "I can't tell where anyone else _fits."_

Optimus had explained, as he once had to Ultra Magnus, that Team Prime functioned more as a family unit than as a military unit, and therefore the chain of command was largely moot. Knock Out had looked at him for a minute, nodded, and left.

A few days later Optimus discovered that the medic had worked around the issue by asking Bumblebee (he tended to ghost after Bumblebee, perhaps because they were almost the same size and were both sports cars) to acquire a list of the chain of command for him.

A surge of guilt had crawled through Prime's circuits when he heard that. First, because this was clearly more important to Knock Out than he'd thought. Second, because the former Decepticon was not even _listed_ on the rolls, and how would he feel about _that _when he was already struggling to find his place on the team?

So Optimus had updated the list and clued in Bumblebee, who passed it along to the medic. ("Hey, you know that file I gave you the other day? Yeah, that was the old version, sorry about that. This is the current one.") Knock Out relaxed a little after that, and gained enough confidence to order Optimus out of the medical bay (cobbled together with equipment stripped from the _Nemesis_) when he felt Ultra Magnus needed rest.

And that was how Optimus Prime ended up where he was today, with a former Decepticon medic gazing up at him, every inch of him confident and expectant.

"Ultra Magnus," Optimus said, "It has been a while, I think, since you checked the structure of our hierarchy. I would suggest doing so now."

The blue and white Autobot half-turned to look at him, then turned back as he accessed the file from their network. "I don't know what you're talking about, Optimus, it's right here. Ratchet - Chief Medical Officer of . . . Earth." He ended on a dubious note. His eyes narrowed. "And Knock Out - Chief Medical Officer of Cybertron. Well."

"Well." Knock Out smiled. "I think you'll agree that I hold the final say in the matter."

"Yes." It sounded like it hurt Ultra Magnus to say it. But Magnus believe in order and he was an honest bot. "It would appear that you do."

"And what will you choose to do, Knock Out?" Optimus asked. Reminding the medic that this was a choice. Reminding him, hopefully, that it was also a responsibility. "We do need those vehicles, as you stated, and we are unlikely to get them unless we cooperate with Bryce."

Knock Out's smile evaporated. Optimus pressed on.

"The protoforms will not be able to develop properly without something to imprint off of, correct?"

"They'll die," Knock Out said simply. He was frowning now, arms crossed tight over his chest.

"What, then," Prime asked gently, "will you do?" There was only one path Knock Out could take.

The medic tapped his fingers against his door paneling. " . . . I'll think about it."

Okay, make that two paths.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

The first thing Knock Out did upon exiting Magnus' office was to send a text to Wheeljack.

_::Drop all else and invent a time machine immediately.::_

_::Sure thing, Red. What color do you want it?::_

_::Blue.::_

The second thing was to retreat to his quarters for some serious thinking. Like everything else about him, Knock Out's living quarters were tasteful and attractive, featuring sleek white walls (covered in high gloss paint) with a variety of well-polished gears fixed to them in a sort of decorative cascade. (Bumblebee complained that the walls were "blinding," but he was just jealous.) He could never decide whether he liked having a window or not, so the mirror was pushed in front of it half the time. The berth in the far corner was rarely used for sleeping, since Knock Out typically recharged in vehicle mode.

He was tempted to fold into his alt mode now, to take comfort in the way all his parts interlocked and fitted, perfect and compact. But he refrained, instead pulling out a datapad and a stylus as he sat at his desk.

He juddered the end of the stylus between his dental plates, click-click-click, as he stared at the blank screen. Once or twice he started to write something, but the stylus never quite made contact with the datapad.

_This is a nightmare. It has to be._

They _needed _those vehicles, damn it. But that human, _Bryce._ Or was he being unreasonably suspicious? Maybe the human wasn't a threat. But if he was. But they _needed_ those vehicles.

_::Hey, did you make it out alive?::_ Bumblebee.

_::More or less.::_

_::Smokescreen wants to know if we got shut down.::_

_::Tell him it's fine, it wasn't about the Cabal at all.::_

_::Good! Oh, and he wants to know if we can meet again tonight and finish the secret handshake.::_

_::Busy. Working. Meet without me.::_ After a moment's thought, Knock Out sent, _::Why isn't he telling me this himself?::_

_::He lost your comm code.::_

_::Again? 4.01.892.::_

Despite the combined efforts of Ratchet, Wheeljack, and Knock Out himself, they had never managed to fully integrate his Decepticon-based comm link with the Autobot communications system. Every so often his automated systems took exception to the abundance of incoming Autobot signals and corrupted his frequency—a Decepticon-engineered precaution against espionage, as far as any of them could tell. The workaround was simple, they assigned Knock Out a new frequency each time, but it was certainly annoying.

_::So, tell! What besetting sin had Prime _and _Magnus lying in wait for you?::_ Bumblebee asked.

_::Hubris. Tell you all the juicy details later.::_ Maybe Knock Out would be able to find some miracle solution before he had to admit that he'd fragged up the entire future of their race. Click-click-click went the stylus between his dentae.

After a few minutes, he heaved himself out of his chair and headed for the monitor room. Wheeljack was nominally on duty. "Nominally" because he was snoozing in his chair, arms folded across his chest, rather than looking at the screen. Knock Out poked his shoulder.

"Where's my time machine?"

"Got it right here," Wheeljack said without opening his eyes, lifting his arm in a rude gesture.

"Wake up or move over. I want to talk to Ratchet."

"First visiting him, now calling him. There something you haven't been tellin' us, Red? You two been playing doctor?"

"You are a disgusting churl."

"I don't know what that is, but it sounds real bad," Wheeljack said cheerfully, tapping some buttons and scooting aside. "There ya go."

"This is Ratchet. What's wrong now?"

"It's—hang on." Knock Out frowned Wheeljack. "Some privacy, if you please."

"I wonder why that'd be," the Wrecker smirked.

"Wheeljack, stop _leering_ and go away!"

"Whatever you say, Red. Have a fun totally platonic conversation." He sauntered off.

Knock Out made a noise of frustration and returned his attention to the computer console. "It's Knock Out."

"So happy to hear from you," Ratchet said, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. "You're quite the bot of the hour. Your name is on everyone's lips."

Knock Out winced. "I'll admit that . . . mistakes were made, but I'm sure we can find a path forward—"

"Just tell me what you want and get off the line. I do not want to talk to you."

"I need to meet with Bryce."

"Ab-sol-utely _not._ The fact that you have the NERVE to suggest it—"

"I want to _apologize,_ Ratchet." Bryce might be satisfied with forcing someone larger and more powerful to come crawling to him, a petty vengeance against a Cybertronian who was rude to him. "Very Autobot of me, wouldn't you say?"

"No. You've done plenty already. Now if that's all—"

"No, wait." Knock Out marshaled his thoughts. "Do you trust him?"

"I can assure you the General is unlikely to attack you or anyone else in a berserker rage."

"But do you _trust_ him?" the ruby red medic persisted.

"General Bryce is a decorated, upstanding member of Unit E."

"So you don't trust him."

"I didn't SAY that, _Knock Out."_

"Fine, whatever. But can you get them to send Fowler instead?" Knock Out didn't totally trust Agent Fowler, but he was better than the other one.

A buzz of static as Ratchet sighed. "No. You're stuck with Bryce."

Meaning Ratchet had already requested Fowler and been denied. Meaning he _didn't_ trust Bryce. "He wants to see the hot spot."

"You aren't telling me anything I don't already know." Ratchet sounded impatient. "Anything else?"

"No."

"We need those vehicles, Knock Out."

"I _know._ I'm not _stupid."_

"That remains to be seen. Over and out."

"Over and out, you rusted out relic," Knock Out snapped after he was sure Ratchet had left the channel. Shoving past Wheeljack, who was none too subtly trying to eavesdrop, he stalked outside, flipped into vehicle mode, and _drove._

Bulkhead had cleared the path to the hot spot somewhat; although sheared-down stubble still prickled under Knock Out's tires and the uneven surface jarred his systems, at least his finish was no longer at risk from the metallic brambles lining the road.

"Hey! Hey Knock Out, wait up!"

"Smokescreen?" He pulled around at an angle as the blue and gold McLaren caught up with him. "What are you doing here?"

"I saw you leaving and . . . uh, are we still on?"

Knock Out gave him the blankest stare his headlights were capable of.

Smokescreen's mirrors shifted. "You were going to show me some of your moves, remember?"

"My moves." Oh Primus, right, he'd foolishly agreed to teach Smokescreen some basic melee attacks and parries. Because that was clearly a priority in peacetime, on an empty planet with nothing left to fight. "Yes, fine. But I need to check the pre-forms first. Follow me."

"Awesome. I love seeing the little guys!" They drove in silence for a while. "Hey, K.O.?"

"Hmmm?"

"You do have your electro-staff along, right?"

"Always."

"Cool." After a minute or two Smokescreen said pensively, _"I _don't have a staff."

"Oh, well. We'll find you a stick or something."

"That doesn't sound like a very fair fight."

"Rookie, this is going to be anything _but _a fair fight."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Knock Out insisted on checking the pre-forms before doing anything else. Some were little more than glowing sparks embedded in the soil while others were growing into distinctly recognizable forms—mostly, although not always, bipedal.

"How come some are so much farther along than others?" Smokescreen asked.

"Well, some are older than others, of course. But frankly the growth rate of pre-forms has always shown a lot of variability. The leading theory is that it has _something_ to do with the spark itself. If you want to get a room full of academics fighting, ask them to define exactly what that is."

"Ha! That sounds like—ohmygosh, look!" He pointed to a shallow depression in the soil, almost like the snow angels he'd seen the kids make that time they'd jaunted off to Colorado.

"Yeeeees, good eye. One of them separated." Knock Out's optics lit up. "So. If you're lucky you'll see your first hatched protoform. Keep your optic sensors buzzing. It'll look silvery, metallic . . . sort of a liquid sheen to its epidermis, too."

Smokescreen strained his optics as they circled the hot spot, carefully picking his way among the other pre-forms. They should've looked eerie, maybe, so still and silent, but instead Smokescreen thought they looked peaceful. Like they were asleep, dreaming of the new lives they'd have when they woke up.

"Look." Knock Out patted another depression with the tip of his foot.

"So there are at least two protoforms out there? Why don't we, y'know, see them?" Smokescreen turned in a circle.

"Oh, they're probably hiding," Knock Out said. He was checking his datapad for notes, looking up the ID code he'd given the new-spark who had recently inhabited the depression in front of him. "Like I said, they're skittish. Here's what this one looks like." He sent Smokescreen a file, an image of a silvery being curled protectively around its spark, half buried in the metallic soil.

"Whoa, what are those things on its . . . shoulders? Are those shoulders?"

"No idea. Some of them you look at them and immediately think 'Car!' or 'Aircraft!' and others could go any which way. Ahhh, I wish this one had waited, though, it was one of my favorites."

"Why would you want it to wait? Because we don't have the cars and stuff here yet?"

Knock Out's mouth dipped into a downward curve and his eyes dimmed for a minute. "No . . . Nooo, that's not quite what I meant." Then he was back to normal, striding off, a little impatient. "Did you want to train or not?"

"Heck yeah! Bring it!"

Ten minutes later, Smokescreen was doing the same practice forms over and over while Knock Out sat cross-legged on the ground, updating his notes or occasionally just staring pensively into the distance. And very, _very _occasionally sparing a glance for Smokescreen. "That's right. Upright stance, lunge forward, sweep. Upright, lunge, sweep. Mm-hm, good . . ." His attention drifted back to the datapad.

"Knock Out. You suck."

"You wanted to learn. This is how you learn. Through repetition."

"This is how I learn that you suck. Come on, at least teach me something cool!"

"Nnnnn." The medic didn't look up.

"Like that spinny thing," Smokescreen persisted. "That spinny thing you do with your staff."

"Oh, all RIGHT! Just stop fussing!" Knock Out pushed himself off the ground and grabbed the long, metallic stick Smokescreen had been using. It blurred into a whirl of silver as Knock Out spun it in his fingers before thumping the butt on the ground. "There."

"That's not teaching, that's showing off. Do it again."

Rolling his optics, Knock Out spun the stick again.

"Can't you do it _slower?_ Like, show me the hand positions."

"Anything to shut you up." Knock Out gripped the impromptu staff and poised for action. Then he dropped the fighting stance and tossed the stick back to Smokescreen. "I can't do it if I'm thinking about it."

"Wow, you are the worst teacher."

"I think_ you're _the worst student." Knock Out closed his eyes as he lifted his chin and crossed his arms in a gesture of superiority.

Smokescreen knew an opportunity when he saw one. He swung the stick like a baseball bat, smacking Knock Out's helm—not hard, just a little payback for that business with the video game. The staff rebounded off the shiny red helmet and screeched across the medic's shoulder.

Smokescreen fought back a snicker as Knock Out gaped, staring incredulously from the blue and gold bot to the scratch across his shoulderpad.

"Wow, turns out you were a good instructor after all—OH SCRAP!" Smokescreen twisted sideways, narrowly avoiding being on the receiving end of ten sharpened claws.

"You scratch my paint, I SCRATCH YOURS!"

"Knock Out!" Dodge to the left. "Just a joke, buddy!" Duck and roll. "Ha-ha, funny, right?" He tried to dodge again, but Knock Out grabbed the stick that Smokescreen was still clutching, used it to pull him close, and got him in a headlock.

"Horrible little brat!" he hissed.

Smokescreen squawked and struggled. "C-come on! It's not a big deal! Just a little, itsy, bitsy scratch. Just needs some buffing and a coat of wax and, hey, I'll even help you buff, okay?"

"If you think I'm letting you near my buffer, EVER, think again!" Knock Out snapped, tightening his hold. "And 'just needs a good coat of wax', I like that! Do you think it grows on _trees?_ Here I am, living off the last of my carnauba, and I can't get any more because—"

The silence hit so suddenly that Smokescreen awkwardly twisted his head to see what was wrong with the ex 'Con. Knock Out was staring fixedly at nothing, at the ground, his optics flicking from side to side and a truly alarming smile spreading across his smooth white face. He released Smokescreen so suddenly that the younger bot fell and got a mouthful of dirt.

"Carnauba wax." Knock Out's grin was wide and just a shade off manic. "And all the other trimmings. Of course. Why didn't I think of it before?" Smokescreen shrunk back as five sharp claws reached for him, but Knock Out just grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him up to his feet. "Come along, dear child. Let's go home."

"Uh. Sure. And . . . do you think you can not call me that?"

"Suit yourself, brat."

* * *

"I hereby call the third meeting of the Cabal of Irresponsibility to order."

"I thought you had to work," Bumblebee said.

"This is more important than work," Knock Out said. "The President and Supreme Ruler of Whatever has a mission for you, Spec Ops, and you, R&D."

"I'm all audials," Wheeljack said, sipping the cube of high-grade he'd brought.

"Good." Knock Out clicked his fingers together. "Mr. President?"

"Uh, right. What we want you to do . . . I mean, what I want you to do . . ." He cast a sidelong glance at Knock Out, who nodded encouragingly at him. "Is to go to the _Nemesis—_"

"Wait, what?"

"—fix the computer system—"

"Yeesh."

"—and . . ." Another glance at Knock Out, who leaned close to whisper in his audial. " . . . and retrieve Knock Out's stash of cosmetic supplies."

"Aaaand the light dawns," Bumblebee said flatly.

"I intend to _share,"_ Knock Out said. "Communal property. An asset to the club. We all like to look our best, don't we? Except Wheeljack."

"I've been told grunge works for me. What's this about the computer?"

"Frankly, it was stupid to break it to begin with."

"I didn't hear you objecting at the time."

"Well, I was new then, wasn't I? I didn't want to rock the boat. Believe me, I've regretted staying quiet ever since—"

"—and he has been careful never to shut his mouth again." Smokescreen said.

Knock Out gave him a dirty look. "You're one to talk. ANYWAY, if you fix it we'll be able to find some of the assets I had tucked away on Earth, like wax and such. Always pays to keep a stockpile hidden somewhere. Not to mention the broader aspects, like possibly being able to track Shockwave or the Predacons."

"Yeah, _if_ we can get the computer running again," Wheeljack said. "We did a number on it, hardware and software. Didn't want any 'Cons usin' it against us, remember? No offense."

"Hmm, none taken." Knock Out half closed his optics. "Still, if anyone can fix it, it's you. You _want_ to go on the mission, don't you? You can't go if you don't have a job. I thought you _liked_ adventure."

"Yeeeeah . . ."

"Although I'm sure you'll be sad to miss Magnus' 'sort the nuts and bolts by size and year of manufacture' party. The event of the year, narrowly beating out the 'watch paint dry' event."

"Oh _frag_ no. All right, I'll go."

"Great! So you and Bumblebee get the computers running, grab as much wax as you can carry, and come back."

"Objection, Mr. Secretary—"

"AND Vice-President."

"—because as enticing as this trip sounds, Ultra Magnus will blow a fuse if we just disappear. It takes a week just to get out there, you know."

"I'll take care of it," Knock Out said. He sounded both confident and sincere, which was alarming. "And I'm going to bridge you there and back."

"Gotta hand it to you, Red. When it comes to stirring up trouble, you jump in with both feet and all four wheels."

"Backing out, Wheeljack?"

"Pit, no. Sounds like a blast."

"Speaking of which, keep the explosions to a minimum, please. Bee, don't let him blow up anything important."

"Wait, how come we don't get to go?" Smokescreen complained. "I want to raid the lost Ark!"

"Because, Smokescreen—"

"Get it? Like 'Raiders of the Lost Ark.' Even though that was actually an Autobot ship."

"Wonderful. Having applauded your wit, let's move on. I'm staying because I need to monitor the hot spot and activate the ground bridge controls. You're staying in case I need assistance. A very important job."

"Well." Smokescreen rubbed his chin. "What kind of assistance?"

"Sorting nuts and bolts."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

The 'Sort the Nuts and Bolts by Size and Year of Manufacture Party' was not, unfortunately, something Knock Out had invented just to encourage Wheeljack to go on the mission. In fact, Ultra Magnus had been planning it for over a month. Initially it had just been Sort the Nuts and Bolts by Size and Year of Manufacture _Day._ Ultra Magnus had added the 'party' bit after some bots (Wheeljack) complained that it didn't sound like fun.

Although he would never have admitted it, Knock Out didn't think it sounded all _that _bad . . . everyone in one room, gossiping away, without any risk to his finish? Not bad at _all._ And, like Magnus, he had an appreciation for order. Everything in its place. It was a little insulting that they had to do the menial work more appropriate for _drones,_ but there wasn't anyone else to do it, after all.

Others were not so sanguine about the event; Arcee proved more than willing to trade her graveyard shift of monitor duty for Knock Out's daytime shift, which would allow her to escape the party (at least for a few hours).

"What are _you_ getting out of this?" Arcee asked, eyeing Knock Out suspiciously. The two of them normally didn't interact much, for a variety of reasons. Chief among these was Knock Out's deeply ingrained suspicion of any Cybertronian smaller than he was and the fact that it was far too easy to forget that she was Third-in-Command. Knock Out didn't mind superior officers, but they should _act _like superior officers.

"I'd rather do anything besides stare at a computer screen for hours, twiddling my thumbs," Knock Out told her, which was the truth. "But since I _have_ to do the wretched monitor duty, I might as well do it when there's nothing else to do anyway."

"Well . . ." Arcee looked tempted. "All right. It's a deal."

They shook on it, solemnly. Knock Out kept his elation off his face; this was supposedly an arrangement to make his life slightly more palatable, not part of a highly involved scheme. Arcee didn't need to know that he'd be bridging Bumblebee and Wheeljack out in the dead of night, with no inconvenient witnesses around.

"Hey," Arcee added, "don't forget about tomorrow. Jack's really looking forward to it."

His first thought was, _Wheeljack, you idiot, I told you not to tell her!_

Then he remembered—Jack, that was the name of her own personal human. Knock Out had promised to take the children—and any other interested parties—out to the hot spot. The fact that his offer "accidentally" coincided with the day of the Sort the Nuts and Bolts by Size and Year of Manufacture Party had been a source of great annoyance to Commander Magnus and great rejoicing to everyone else.

For his part, Knock Out felt that expecting everyone to work all day straight, as Magnus was wont to demand, would have been a massive mistake. After a predictable round of "Oh, I'm so sorry for the scheduling conflict, sir, my bad, it was an accident," he finally gained approval from the Commander.

So. Taking the human children to the site while he worked fervently to prevent Bryce from ever seeing it. The irony was not lost on Knock Out.

He shook his head and went to find Bumblebee.

* * *

"—so I've listed the passcodes for you, they _should_ all be in order if you can get the computer up and running. I've got a data-stick somewhere—ah, here." He pressed it into Bumblebee's hand. "Download the file I've listed. And any others that catch your eye," he added as an afterthought. "But definitely this one."

Bumblebee examined the filename. "KOB? Ah yes, the infamous Decepticon corn lobby."

"What?"

"It was a joke. Never mind." Bumblebee ran through the list again, then eyed the red grounder.

"What?" Knock Out said in a completely different tone, crossing his arms.

"You knooow, for having been a Decepticon, you've never been such a great liar."

"Now THAT'S a _lie._ I've just taught you too much, Bug. To my everlasting chagrin."

"C'mon. What's this about really?"

"I'll tell you when you get back."

"Don't you trust me?"

"That," Knock Out sniffed, "is a silly question. But what can one expect from today's dissolute youth?"

"Yeah, well, pretty soon the new generation will be the dissolute youth. I'll be the cranky old bot shaking my cane at them."

"Right." Knock Out took the data-pad from him, frowning as he double-checked the passwords. "Keep an eye on Wheeljack, make sure he doesn't start, I don't know, trying to blast through the walls instead of using the doors or something _Wrecker-ish_ like that."

Bumblebee took the data-pad back. "So you're really not going to tell me what this is about?"

"I think I answered that already," Knock Out said, a little more sharply than he intended.

"No, you evaded. Like you do."

"You figured out what I meant, so it's the same thing."

"If you're in trouble with Magnus and Prime—"

Knock Out's lips twitched in spite of himself. "I can handle our _dear Commander_ just fine, thank you very much. And Prime is . . . Prime. Look. I'll explain everything, just not _now._ You trust _me,_ don't you?"

"Against my better judgment."

And that was good enough for Knock Out.

* * *

"You know what?" Miko announced. "This would make a great setting for a horror movie."

"Why's that, Miko?" Bulkhead asked, setting her on his shoulder to give her a better view of the hot spot.

"'Cause of all the freaky protoforms, _duh."_

"Freaky?" Bulkhead looked out at the silvery forms nestled in the soil. "Huh, I'm not seeing it. Anyway, those are pre-forms. Protoforms is when they're, y'know, walking around on their own and stuff."

"There are a couple protoforms around here," Smokescreen told them, proud of his knowledge. "Haven't seen 'em yet, but maybe today, right?"

"That's the spirit, Smokey," Bulkhead agreed. "Man, I hope so too. Haven't seen one in forever."

"Well, I still think they'd make awesome zombies," Miko said. "Let's take a look at that one, Bulk."

"And just _where_ do you think you're going?" Suddenly a ruby red grounder was blocking their way. "Stay on the hill, I said, I think I was clear about that!"

"Easy, Knock, we were just going to—"

"—stay on the _hill?"_

"Um. Yes. Right. That's . . . exactly what we're gonna do."

_"Good."_

"Whoa," Smokescreen commented, watching Knock Out stalk away. "Intense."

Bulkhead just chuckled. "He's just worried about trying to keep an eye on so many people at once."

Smokescreen nodded. It was true, there was quite a crowd at the hot spot. Himself, Bulkhead and Miko, Arcee and Jack, and, unexpectedly, Ratchet. Smokescreen kind of thought it was Ratchet who was really getting on the shiny red mech's nerves, though. Just something about the glances Knock Out kept shooting him. "Hey, what happened to Bumblebee and Raf? Can't believe they'd miss this."

"Raf called and said he had the flu or something," Miko said, fiddling with the small white device strapped to her wrist. Wheeljack had invented a device that maintained a small, artificial "Earthen" atmosphere around the humans, provided they wore the small, round discs on their ankles and wrists. Arcee insisted that the children wear oxygenated facemasks anyway, just in case. "Just in case" was always a good precaution to take with Wheeljack's inventions. "And Bumblebee didn't want to go without him, I guess."

"Miko, are you sure you should be messing with that thing?" Bulkhead asked. "I don't want you choking to death."

"Aw, Bulk."

"He's right. Unless you think it would be fun dying on an alien planet," Arcee said, walking up.

"Hey Jack, what do you think of our baby-bots, huh?" Smokescreen grinned.

"Hey, Smokescreen. They're really . . . metallic?" Jack scrubbed his hand on the back of his head.

"Yeah, they're pretty cute—_uh_ oh, doctor fight!" Everyone looked down the hill to see Ratchet and Knock Out glaring at each other. They were too far away to hear, but they were clearly arguing. The older mech kept pointing out at the pre-forms while the shiny red medic kept his arms crossed and shoulders hunched right up to the point where he snapped and started gesticulating so fast his hands were a blur, leaning forward to challenge Ratchet.

Miko put her hands to either side of her mouth and bellowed, "NOW KISS!"

The glare that both bots gave as they swirled around was pretty priceless.

"Humans . . . _Really,"_ Knock Out growled as he stalked back to the group.

"Ha! Got you that time, _arch-nemesis!"_ Miko grinned triumphantly.

"Ha. Ha ha ha."

"Miko," Ratchet said, "I'm going to ask Agent Fowler to give you fewer lessons on blowing things up and more on _manners."_

"Pffft."

"What were you two fighting about, anyway?" Arcee asked, curious.

"We weren't _fighting,_ we were merely . . . disagreeing," Ratchet said.

"Strongly," Knock Out muttered. "As a matter of fact—what _is it,_ Smokescreen?"

"I see one," Smokescreen said in a hushed voice. "I see a protoform."

Instantly everyone was on high alert, none moreso than the two medics.

"What?" Ratchet demanded. "Where?"

Smokescreen pointed. It was all the way over at the base of another hill, a silvery bipedal figure wandering through the brush, occasionally crouching to poke at the brush, or standing on tiptoe to look around. Its movements were just a little bit jerky and uncertain.

Ratchet picked up Jack to give him a better view. "Whoa," the boy said, "that's . . . that's . . ."

"Totally creepy," Miko said. "WOW."

"What?"

_"Creepy?"_

"How can you say that?" Smokescreen said, pointing to the protoform as it picked up a metallic twig and testingly licked it. "That's, like, the cutest thing I've _ever seen."_

"You really don't like it?" Bulkhead sounded bewildered.

"I didn't say I didn't like it, I said it was _creepy._ Jack, back me up here."

"Uhhh . . ."

_"Well,_ Jack?" Arcee crossed her arms.

"I'm sorry, guys, but . . . I'm kind of weirded out by it too."

"Humans!" Knock Out threw his arms in the air. "They have no appreciation for _what we are."_ He gave Ratchet a look.

"It's not that I'm not happy for you guys," Jack said hastily. "I think it's awesome that you're having, uh . . . children? I guess?"

Ratchet broke off his glaring contest with Knock Out to answer. "More or less. Offspring. Yes. Although they _are_ far more independent and self-sustaining than human offspring."

Knock Out nodded. "Precocial."

"Gesundheit!" Miko replied cheerfully.

" . . . never mind."

* * *

**A/N:** Precocial animals would include any species that's fairly well-developed and able to walk on its own soon after birth. For example, baby quail (remember them trailing after their mother in "Bambi"?). As opposed to baby robins, that are born naked and ugly and are helpless for a long time.

Some precocial babus still depend on their parents to some extent, others really don't need them at all.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

As the rest bantered back and forth, Jack kept staring down the valley at the protoform, willing himself to see the "cuteness" that the Cybertronians insisted was present. He guessed he could _sort of _understand how the silvery creature walking with that lopsided, uncertain gait, stopping to stare in random direction with its big black eyes was—okay, no, it was still super creepy. Like, X-Files creepy.

Smokescreen obviously didn't agree; he kept his gaze eagerly fixed on the protoform, utterly charmed. More than once he uttered a soft "awww!". When the protoform finally disappeared around the base of a distant hill, he said, "Wow. That was _totally awesome."_

"Uh, yeah!" Jack agreed hastily. "Awesome, Smokescreen!"

"Awesome. . . for a zombiiie," Miko said in a faux whisper.

"Oh, Miko," Bulkhead chuckled. "I'm with Smokey, he was a cute little guy, wasn't he? Or gal. Can't really tell yet. Too bad it's a twenty-fiver, though."

"A what?" asked Jack.

Smokescreen was wondering the same thing. "What's that?"

Bulkhead looked surprised. "You don't know what a twenty-fiver is?"

"Bulkhead," Knock Out and Arcee said at the same time, in identical admonishing tones.

"Aw, scrap." The Wrecker looked at Smokescreen and the kids. "Uh, nothing! It's nothing."

"Okay, now you've _got _to tell us," Miko said with authority.

Ratchet vented a sigh. "As _resourceful _as you are," he gave Miko a dark look, "I suppose you'll find out soon or later. A 'twenty-fiver' is—"

_"I'm_ in charge here, _I'll _tell them," Knock Out snapped. He turned towards the others. "'Twenty-fiver' is a crude bit of slang for, ah, the mortalities."

"The mortalities?" Miko asked.

"Right. The ones who don't make it."

Smokescreen was horrified. "Are you saying that cute little guy is going to _die?"_

"Not at all. It's _entirely_ possible he'll survive to maturity!" Knock Out said lightly. Ratchet raised an eyebrow at him; the ruby red medic huffed. "Although, statistically speaking, probably not."

"But . . . but why? How can we help? I mean . . . do we need to give him more energy or shelter or—"

"Smokescreen," Ratchet said, firm but gentle. "It has nothing to do with what's available to it, individually. It's more like . . ." He thought for a moment. "We _think _it has to do with a cohort—a group of protoforms—maintaining a critical mass, socially speaking. Protoforms aren't meant to hatch alone. Well then. The first ones to separate from Cybertronian soil have . . . a difficult time of it."

"And the last," Knock Out added. "Either end of the bell curve is not where you want to be, if you're a protoform. The y-axis, of course, being—"

"I don't care about the y-axis!" Smokescreen burst out. "I care that this _sucks!"_

Arcee put a hand on his arm, comforting. "I know. It always has."

The children had been uncharacteristically silent, but now Miko spoke up in a small voice. "Why are they called twenty-fivers?"

Bulkhead cleared his throat. "It's 'cause—and I'm really sorry I brought this up, by the way—it's 'cause they usually lose twenty-five percent of them. Um. From either end."

"From either—so _fifty_ percent?!" Jack said incredulously. _"Half_ of them? Seriously?"

"It's _not_ fifty percent and it hasn't been in millions of years. It's just like you to spread that myth, _Bulkhead."_ Knock Out rolled his eyes. "It's usually ten to fifteen percent at either end of the curve. So thirty percent _max."_

"Whatever! I'm just answering questions the best I can here!"

Smokescreen looked down the valley again. "So we've spent all this time fighting, building better missiles and bigger guns while this just . . . happens? That's what we've been doing, instead of helping them?"

"Wow, thank you, Smokescreen. Helping the protoforms: why didn't we think of that?" Knock Out said drily. "Of _course_ we've been trying to lower the mortality rates; there are whole fields of study devoted to it."

"Or were, before the scientific institutions were blown to scrap," Ratchet muttered under his breath.

Knock Out continued. "And we've made progress, too. Why do you think the death rate dropped from twenty-five percent down to fifteen? And, I might add, that some of the greatest strides—"

"Knock Out—" Ratchet growled.

"Some of the _greatest strides,_" Knock Out persisted, louder, "were made during the war. Oss-oss, for example."

That was what it sounded like to Smokescreen, anyway. "Oss-oss? What's that?"

"It was an abomination," Ratchet huffed.

"It was," Knock Out corrected, "one of the most far-reaching scientific endeavors of all time. Oh-Ess-Oh-Ess. O.S.O.S."

"What was that, some kind of training program?" Miko asked, drumming her heels against Bulkhead's chest.

"It was a particularly unethical experimentation program," Ratchet said, "even by Decepticon standards."

"Reducing predation on protoforms was cruel? Protecting growing pre-forms from acid rain was cruel? Tsk-tsk, Ratchet."

"That was _hardly _all O.S.O.S. did, as well you know."

"Time out!" Smokescreen held his hands up in a T formation. "'Cause I still don't know what you're talking about."

"O.S.O.S.—'One Spark, One Soldier'—was a rather ambitious attempt to ensure that every spark made it to maturity," Knock Out explained.

"Waaait a second," Miko said. "The _'Cons_ were trying to save all the baby-sparks? But they're the _bad guys!"_

Knock Out gave her a cold look. "Sorry if we weren't sufficiently _villainous_ for your tastes, _Miko."_

"Tuh! Experimenting on helpless protoforms wasn't villainous?" Ratchet demanded.

Knock Out paused. "Some of the research went . . . a bit far. But it did produce results."

"Well, that justifies everything," Ratchet said sarcastically. "And next you'll tell me the Decepticons did it out of the goodness of their sparks, without any ulterior motives."

"Hardly ulterior. More like blatant. It was right there in the name—One Spark, One _Soldier._ The whole point," he explained, turning to the others, "was to acquire new recruits for the _glorious_ Decepticon army. The reproductive rate was dropping and the High Command was going through Decepticon soldiers like . . . like . . . well, like the High Command went through Decepticon soldiers. Talk about your mortalities . . . "

"And somehow that makes it okay to _brainwash_ new-sparks? And that's not touching on the experimentation. Trying to fracture sparks—disgusting."

"Well, we got the Vehicons out of it. Which, admittedly, is nothing to crow about. But really, Ratchet . . . are you suggesting the Autobots had squeaky clean servos? How about the D.I.N.O.'s little experiments, hmmm? Or should I say their big, hulking, brutish experiments?"

"D.I.N.O.?" Jack asked.

"The Department of, mmm, let me think," Knock Out tapped his chin. "The Department of Instrumentalization of . . . Natal? Nascent?"

"The Department for the Instrumentalization of Nascency and Obstetrics," Ratchet mumbled. "But that was _completely different—"_

"Of course. It was for _your_ side."

"The Autobot scientists followed strict ethical guidelines!"

"Is that why the D.I.N.O.'s _products_ were always half _braindead?_ You always knew when you were fighting one, that's for sure. 'Me Autobot smash you bad Decepticon.' Clearly an _incredible_ amount of care and nurturing went into their development."

_"One_ unethical division run by Autobots doesn't compare to the Decepticons' systematic use of sparks as test subjects! Or to an entire faction's acceptance of it!"

"The _acceptance_ of it? Do you think the powers that be _polled _us before they went ahead with their little side projects? Do you think they came to me and said, 'Excuse me, lowly field medic, but we wanted your opinion: experimenting on sparks, yea or nay?'?"

"And _yet_ a minute ago you were defending them."

"I wasn't _defending_ them, I was . . ." Clearly frustrated, Knock Out's rolled his hand forward and pinched his fingertips together, as though trying to pull than answer from thin air. "I didn't _approve _of everything O.S.O.S. did, but I understand how we got to that point." The sun caught his gleaming paint as he suddenly leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "It started with the simple little questions about sparks and protoforms, all for the greater good of _course,_ and then the boundaries were pushed, and pushed, and _pushed_ again until we couldn't even _see_ the boundaries anymore. The thing about pursuing knowledge, Ratchet, is _you don't know who else will take up the chase."_

Ratchet's shoulders creaked as he tensed. "And so your solution is—what? Rampant paranoia of everyone with a passing interest in knowledge?"

"Not paranoia; foresight. Looking down the road a good long stretch for upcoming problems. It probably comes from being a sports car; when you roll at two hundred miles per hour obstacles come up faster than you'd think. Supposing you could've headed off the O.S.O.S. project at its start, Ratchet. Wouldn't you have done so? _Even if it meant making_ _certain sacrifices?"_

"That would depend," Ratchet gritted out, "if they were my sacrifices or _an innocent party's."_

"And I'm sure the legions of _innocent parties_ suffering in the future would applaud your lack of action. 'Yes, Ratchet, could have prevented this,' they would say, 'but at least he can _sleep_ at night, thank goodness for that'—"

As the argument between Ratchet and Knock Out volleyed back and forth, the others looked on in increasing bewilderment. Something was _off—_in Knock Out's delivery, in the way Ratchet's servos had clenched into fists, in the way the two medics almost seemed to have traded sides compared to their initial arguments. Their words made sense, but not really, not quite, not for _them._ Bulkhead and Smokescreen shifted uncomfortably; Arcee watched the two intently, her optic ridges raised.

"Uh . . . hey!" Bulkhead broke in. Both medics looked at him. "Uh, hey, I think I saw 'Con poster about O.S.O.S. once. Know anything about that, Knock?"

"Oh . . . yes." The former Decepticon seemed a little taken aback by the comment. "The whole thing was accompanied by a _massive _propaganda campaign. Some rather artistic pieces came out of it. What did it look like?"

"Well, it had a couple of bots on it and 'O.S.O.S.' in big letters."

"Congratulations, you have successfully described every O.S.O.S. poster ever." Despite the snide words, Knock Out looked faintly amused. "Was it this one?" His eyes flickered as he dug an image file out of a long unused folder deep in his memory banks. He dropped it in the electronic share-space, available for anyone who cared to download it.

"No, not that one," Bulkhead said, after studying it.

"Hey!" Miko said, tapping on the side of his helm with her fist. "I wanna see!"

"Wait." Knock Out tapped on his data-pad a few times before handing it to Bulkhead. "There."

"Uh, Bulkhead, do you mind if I . . . ?" Jack gestured.

"Nope, come on up," the green bot answered easily. With Arcee's help, the teenager settled on Bulkhead's other shoulder, leaning forward to peer at the image on the screen.

It reminded him a little of the art deco pictures he'd studied in Art History. The focal point of the image was a highly stylized, angular Seeker raising a hand skyward, palm up. The golden sphere in his (her?) hand had been artistically rendered to represent both a golden spark, ready to be whisked away on the wind, and the eye of a hulking soldier, seen only as a ghostly silhouette somewhere behind the Seeker.

"It says 'ONE SPARK, ONE SOLDIER,'" Smokescreen told them helpfully, although Jack had already guessed what the Cybertronian words meant. "In caps."

"Try this one, Bulkhead," said Knock Out.

This picture featured a tank mech, a smallish one judging by his height in comparison to the doorway he was standing in. The style was more realistic than the last picture, with dark shadows cast by dim streetlights. Worry showed on the tank-bot's face as he peered into the night, his hands cupped protectively around a purple spark. A half-seen figure was stalking down the street, mostly defined by a pair of ominously glowing blue eyes. The text on that one was "PROTECT EVERY SPARK. IT'S YOUR DUTY. O.S.O.S."

"Always thought 'it's your duty' was a bit unnecessary, myself. It breaks the flow," Knock Out said. "That wasn't it either, hmm, Bulkhead? How about this . . ."

Back to the art deco, with a cavalcade of sparks floating on the wind, the nearest in the foreground and the farthest blending seamlessly with the bright laserfire of a distant squadron of Seekers. "RISING TO GREATNESS. ONE SPARK, ONE SOLDIER."

"Geez, I had no idea there were so many of these," Bulkhead said. "The one I'm thinkin' of . . . It was two mechs—"

("So not this one," Knock Out murmured, unveiling one of two femmes supporting a spark, together, on the tips of their fingers.)

"—and they were, uh . . . Now, I didn't actually _own_ this poster, this femme I knew had it up above her bunk . . ."

"Oh, I _see."_ Knock Out's smirked as he sent the next file.

"Whoa." Smokescreen's jaw dropped as he opened it. "That's . . . Wow, that's . . ."

"Bulkhead, please tell me your friend wasn't putting Decepticon porn above her bunk."

"It's . . . not that bad, 'Cee. More like a pin-up, right?"

"Seriously? A pin-up would be the one 'Con pushing the other on a swing or something, not the two of them baring everything they've got."

Jack blinked. "Wait . . . what?"

"I _need _to see this," Miko declared, craning her neck even as Bulkhead hid the data-pad's screen with one massive hand.

"Oh, let them look, it's not like they'll _understand,"_ Knock Out said, stealing the data-pad away from the larger bot with a flick of his wrist and holding it up for the humans. Miko and Jack (even "the responsible one" was allowed to be curious _once in a while_, he told himself) leaned forward.

Two mechs, both with Decepticon insignias placed prominently on their chassis, sat across from each other. One had opened his chestplates, but since he sat at a three-quarter angle with his back to the viewer, his opened armor obscuring the source of the light blazing in front of him like a corona. Only a thin gleam edged over his wing, like a miniature sunrise.

The other mech had dug his fingers into the seam running between his _own _chestplate and was in the process of prying them apart. A sphere of light was just visible between the shifting panels, casting streamers of light over his fingers.

"That's it?" Miko said after a pause.

"I was kind of expecting something more . . . well, more," admitted Jack. "What's the text say?"

"'FOR THE CAUSE. O.S.O.S.'"

"Saving this one in my memory banks forever. Long live the Decepticons!" Smokescreen said fervently. Knock Out cuffed him on the back of his head with the data-pad. "Knock Out, OW!"

"Whelp." The medic smiled indulgently as the blue and gold Autobot rubbed his helm. "Yes, there was period where the High Command encouraged every 'Con to indulge in hedonistic delights 'for the greater glory (and expansion) of the Decepticon army', but alas, all to soon we were back to 'don't get involved with your fellow soldiers, and if you _do, _then please don't tell us about it.'" Knock Out thought for a minute. "Actually, scratch the 'please'."

"Knock Out." Ratchet crossed his arms. "You probably could have communicated that to Smokescreen _without _punching him into the dirt."

"I didn't punch him." Knock Out regarded Smokescreen, eyeing him a few seconds before turning towards the white and orange mech with a shrug. "Anyway, he's fine."

"I _am_, Ratchet, really," Smokescreen said hastily. "I was just surprised."

"Wonderful," Ratchet muttered. "I'll be the one having to explain his processor damage to Prime, I'm sure."

"Oh, lighten up," Knock Out said.

"You can say that? You can stand there _right now_ and say_ that?"_

"Why not?"

"Because," Ratchet's voice lowered to a hissed whisper only the red mech could hear, "you've chosen the more dangerous route."

Knock Out's reply was even quieter, though composed. "As I've made abundantly clear, I haven't chosen any path. Yet. And I won't until I have to. And on that note . . ." His smile was nothing if not confident. "If you're facing two equally nasty roads, isn't the best option to find a _third _route?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Ultra Magnus was satisfied by the results of the Sort the Nuts and Bolts by Size and Year of Manufacture Party. Not _elated_—that would have been unseemly—but satisfied. An important task had been completed, no one had managed to injure themselves, and Optimus had complimented Magnus' homemade energon treats. In fact, he and Optimus had eaten most of them themselves; for a quite a time they were the only two partygoers, everyone else having traipsed off on Knock Out's little jaunt. Just him and Prime, passing a magnifying glass back and forth as they looked for the manufacturer's stamp. And in all honesty, Ultra Magnus had been fine with that too.

At Optimus' suggestion, they had asked Ratchet to join the troupe headed out to the hot spot—ostensibly to check on the sparks, but actually to talk sense into Knock Out. But Ratchet returned looking sour while an alarmingly cheerful Knock Out settled himself on the floor and started flicking bolts into their containers (and occasionally flicking one at Smokescreen's head as well).

"He's completely intractable," Ratchet fumed later as Optimus frowned in concern and Ultra Magnus just plain frowned. "He _refuses_ to let General Bryce anywhere near the hot spot."

"I see." As simple as the two words were, Optimus looked deeply troubled. "And his reasoning?"

"Nothing we didn't know about before. He doesn't trust humans. I don't know if it's because he's a Decepticon—"

"Former Decepticon," Optimus said gently.

"—or for more . . . _personal_ . . . reasons. Either way, same result. He. will. not. budge."

"Did you make him realize the gravity of the situation?" Ultra Magnus asked sharply. "Without vehicles—"

"He's a medic; he's stubborn, not stupid. He knows _exactly_ what will happen to the protoforms if vehicles aren't provided. He told me to my face that he's 'considering all his options' and that the loss of the cohort—_the entire cohort—_would be 'unfortunate but not unthinkable.'"

Ultra Magnus broke the silence that followed. "Thank you, Doctor. We will . . . take care of it."

_"Thank_ you. I'm getting too old for this nonsense." The orange and white medic paused in the doorway. "It's not that he doesn't care. It would be easier if he didn't. He's planning something. He wouldn't tell me what, oh no, that would be _far _too simple. Just kept spouting nonsense like 'just because there's a toll road doesn't mean you have to take it' and 'sometimes you have to build your own off-ramp.'"

"We will bear that in mind," Optimus said. "Thank you for your assistance."

"Good luck," Ratchet said. "You'll need it, I'm sure."

Optimus and Ultra Magnus looked at each other as the door closed.

"Remember how reserved Knock Out was when he first joined us? How long it took to draw him out of his shell?" Ultra Magnus sighed and massaged his helm. "Sometimes I wish I could stick him back in it."

That earned a laugh from Optimus. "It's late, my friend. Let's leave our medic to himself for the moment. Things will look brighter in the morning."

* * *

"Bulkhead. Have you seen Wheeljack?" Ultra Magnus asked the next day as the first rays of sunlight broke over the horizon. Then he asked it again, louder, because although Bulkhead was dutifully attending the monitor, he was also sound asleep.

"N-nooope," the green Aubobot yawned. (Not even bothering to apologize!) "Can't say that I have. Not since yesterday." He thought for a moment. "Actually not since the day before."

Ultra Magnus grunted. He was not surprised in the least that Wheeljack had gone off on his own to avoid work. Probably still asleep in some corner of the base. What did he care if the Ultra Magnus needed someone to scout out an energy source? "Understood. And Bulkhead—the point of monitor duty is to WATCH the monitors. Cybertronian ships could return to Cybertron at any time."

"Ye-eeeeah," Bulkhead said, scratching the back of his helm. "Only . . . there haven't been any so far, have there? Ever?"

"We have to be ready, soldier," Ultra Magnus said firmly before continuing on towards his office. Sometimes it seemed like he was the only sane bot around here, the only one with any sense of _order._

He opened the door to his office . . . and found it already occupied.

"Commander Magnus, sir," Knock Out said, rising to his feet and pressing his hand across his chest in a formal salute.

Ultra Magnus stared. He was not sure what was more unusual, that Knock Out was waiting for him, unasked, or that Knock Out had acknowledged his rank without the least vestige of mockery. The chair he'd been sitting in, Magnus noted, was the one from his last, contentious meeting, dragged away from the wall so that it was once again directly in front of his desk. The medic held the salute as Ultra Magnus studied him.

"At ease, Doctor," he said at last, passing by him to reach his desk. And Knock Out dropped flawlessly into the proper "at ease" stance, legs shoulder-width apart, back straight, hands folded neatly behind his back. Strange, very strange, this sudden formality. While Knock Out did usually tack on a "sir" or a "commander" to the tail-end of his sentences, he always gave the words a flippant tone.

Well—not _always_. A few times, late at night, when Ultra Magnus had passed by the ruby red grounder while he was on monitor duty, the smaller mech had offered a bleary "Commander Magnus" without sounding anything but sleepy. But that was a far cry from acting like he was taking part in a military parade.

"What brings you here, Doctor?" Magnus asked cautiously.

"I'm here to report my progress, sir."

"Your progress."

"On our little protoform dilemma, sir. As your CMO, I've been exploring possible solutions and I believe I've made _significant _progress."

"Ah." Ultra Magnus thought he detected a certain amount of satisfaction under that carefully blank faceplate, perhaps a hint of a smile. "Proceed, soldier."

_"Well,"_ Knock Out said, sounding less like the perfect soldier and more like himself, "I was thinking about the _Harbringer,_ the Decepticon scouting ship that crashed on Earth. It had several protoforms on board, in stasis—"

"It _did?"_ Ultra Magnus said sharply. This was news to him. "What happened to them? Are they still viable?"

Knock Out paused. "Ah, they're deceased, sir."

"I see. What happened to them?"

A longer pause. "Starscream used them to clone himself. Sir."

Ultra Magnus stared.

Knock Out gave a slight shrug. "Part of a ploy to offline Megatron. It didn't work."

"I wouldn't have thought so, given that Megatron's still alive. Were _all_ the protoforms . . . _used_ in this way?"

"Yes, sir. And ultimately terminated by Megatron."

"I see." Ultra Magnus tried to keep the disgust out of his voice. "Continue."

"Right . . ." Knock Out seemed to have lost his thread of conversation, but he soon picked it up again. "Oh, yes, so I was thinking about the _Harbringer_ and I asked myself, 'Knock Out, what other resources do we have that might _ease_ our current dilemma?' And then it hit me . . . The _Nemesis."_

"The Decepticon warship. Are you saying there are protoforms aboard that as well?"

"No, sir, a warship can support a sufficient crew without needing protoforms as backups. Nevertheless, I feel the _Nemesis _holds the answer. Sir."

Ultra Magnus' eyes narrowed. "You do realize, soldier, that for the purpose of imprinting, corpses are not an appropriate replacement for a living Cybertronian or a non-sentient machine."

_"Corpses?_ Seriously? What do you take me for?" For a moment Knock Out was just Knock Out, hands on his hips, indignity on his face. With an obvious effort, he pulled himself into a formal stance once more. "As your CMO, let me assure you that I would _never_ advocate such a thing, sir. Or allow it."

"Very well," Ultra Magnus said. "Then what do you propose?"

Before the medic could answer, there was a tap at the door—more to alert the occupants than to request entry—and Optimus strode in.

"Ultra Magnus, my friend, are you ready to—" He broke off, seeing Knock Out.

"Prime, sir." Knock Out was clearly using it as a title rather than a name. This time his salute was accompanied by a bowed helm. Exactly what military protocol demanded of their respective ranks.

"That is not necessary, Knock Out," Optimus said, glancing from the medic to Ultra Magnus. Knock Out didn't move.

_::I was about to call you,::_ Ultra Magnus sent. _::He was waiting for me. In order to 'report his progress.'::_

_::I see.::_ Optimus looked at Knock Out, who was still stiffly saluting.

"At ease, soldier," Ultra Magnus said for the second time that day, and Knock Out shifted accordingly, relaxing and lifting his head. What was going on in that shiny red helm, Ultra Magnus wondered. Knock Out had never acted like this before. "Perhaps you'd like to explain the situation again now that Optimus is here."

"Yes, sir." Knock Out turned to the leader of the Autobots. "As Chief Medical Officer, I've been working to find a solution to our vehicular problem. As I was telling Commander Magnus, I think the _Nemesis_ might hold the key. It's a largely untapped resource with vast amounts of information, including medical journals and scientific notes, stored on its mainframe. In addition, the long-range sensors would detect incoming ships, which would be useful to our overall mission."

"That may be so," Optimus said slowly. "However, we disabled the warship's computer systems before we left it."

"I have every confidence that Team Prime can get it up and running again, sir."

"Is that truly the course you wish to pursue, Knock Out?" Prime asked.

"The ship is a derelict; we have as much of a right to it as anyone."

Optimus closed his eyes for a minute. "What I meant was, we could focus on the supply of vehicles that we _know_ we can obtain rather than chasing after mere possibilities. Would that not be the better path?"

"Certainly the _easier_ path, sir," Knock Out said, and the perfect neutrality of his voice spoke volumes.

_::What do you think, Ultra Magnus?::_

_::Raiding a Decepticon warship on the off chance of finding something useful to this specific situation? Poor use of resources.::_

"Knock Out." Optimus Prime's voice was as calm as ever. "As much as I appreciate your diligence, I'm afraid we must allow General Bryce's visit."

"As you wish, Prime." He stared straight ahead—this put his gaze at waist-level on Optimus. "Obviously I don't have any control over the whole of Cybertron. Just the little bits that fall under my jurisdiction."

"And you won't allow Bryce to observe the hot spot even if that is _the only hope of survival_ for the protoforms?" Magnus demanded.

"All I can say—and I say it with _all due respect—_ is that I wouldn't allow it without exploring every other avenue first. If I allowed it at all. Sir."

"Knock Out." Prime vented a sigh. "No one would gain by the death of the protoforms. A sad end for 'the first peace-time generation', as you put it. Is that really what you want?"

"Nothing about this is _what I want,"_ the medic said, sharpness edging his voice. "And yet here I am, burdened with these decisions."

"Perhaps, then . . ." Optimus paused, then continued, and his tone was as firm as it was mellow. "Perhaps, then, the burden should be lifted from your shoulders."

"I see." Knock Out's lips pressed in a thin line. "May I ask, sir, why you're _demoting_ me?"

"Knock Out . . ."

_::Ultra Magnus. How can I make him understand that this is not a demotion?::_

Ultra Magnus repressed a sigh. _::You don't need to demote him, but at the very least you need a reprimand to clear him out of the way.::_

_::Can I not simply . . . go around him? I am reluctant to upset him further.::_

Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots, had led the fight in the war. But never as a common soldier, Ultra Magnus reminded himself. He had dealt extensively with generals and higher-ups, but purely in matters of warfare. Not in the million little matters of bureaucracy that held the army together.

_::As CMO, he's within his rights to deny anyone access to the hot spot. So, you must either strip him of the rank entirely or judge him temporarily unable or unwilling to fulfill his duties.::_

Optimus gave a small, reluctant grimace. _::If that is what is necessary, that is what I shall do.::_

_::Prime. Wait.::_

Ultra Magnus looked down at Knock Out, standing there, waiting for an answer. Hands behind his back, feet shoulder-width apart, helm straight forward, despite the fact that he couldn't look the taller bots in the eye that way. For once, a perfect soldier. Ultra Magnus' processor whirred as he considered everything he had seen that morning.

Knock Out, saluting and standing at attention, emphasizing that there was a chain of command, and he was part of it.

Knock Out, waiting for Magnus, ready with a report so that he couldn't be accused of shirking his responsibilities or dereliction of duty.

Knock Out, repressing his sometimes fiery, always flippant personality under a neutral, painfully respectful demeanor, so that he couldn't be accused of insubordination.

Knock Out, referring to himself as CMO over and over, a claim that Ultra Magnus had not denied.

Knock Out, who had, in the politest possible way, boxed in Ultra Magnus.

The fact that Magnus saw the manipulation did not mean that he could escape it. The time to strip Knock Out of his rank had been two dozen "sirs" ago, if not farther back. Rank was not something to be given on whim, then snatched away the moment it became inconvenient. Optimus, from what he'd told Magnus the previous night, had promoted Knock Out to CMO primarily out of pity . . . but promote him he had. If Knock Out's rank didn't mean anything, then neither did anyone else's.

And that was unacceptable.

_::You can't get around him, Optimus.::_

_::Pardon?::_

_::Subverting him would be to throw the command structure into jeopardy and to undermine your _own _authority. And to reprimand him, at this stage, would be . . . unfair. He is performing his duties, as much as we may not agree with his interpretation of them.::_

There was a pause.

"You are not being demoted, Knock Out," Optimus said. "However, if you wished to voluntarily delegate your responsibilities to others, you might find it a relief—"

"No. Thank you, sir. But no."

" . . . very well."

"The _Nemesis_, sir?" Knock Out said after a stretch of awkward silence. "A team of Autobots might be able to get the computer up and running, if they had the right skills. Surely it's worth looking into?"

"Possibly. Yes. I suppose we must indeed . . . explore every avenue," Optimus said, though with some reluctance. "I understand Wheeljack has some talent with electronics."

"When he's not blowing them up," Ultra Magnus muttered.

"Ah yes, _Wheeljack."_ Knock Out looked thoughtful. "Perhaps if he were paired up with a more responsible and less . . . explosion-prone Autobot. Bumblebee, for example."

"Possibly. Bumblebee, or Arcee."

"Bumblebee has the advantage of being a scout, sir. He can find his way around the ship."

This was a point. During the final assault on the _Nemesis,_ Ultra Magnus' team had become disoriented several times in the maze of identical corridors. But he was leaving the final decision up to Prime on this one. He looked at the Autobot leader.

"Very well, Knock Out," Optimus said after some reflection. "Please inform Wheeljack and Bumblebee that they will be briefed for an upcoming mission."

"Hardly necessary, sir. They return tomorrow."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

As Knock Out had anticipated, Prime and Magnus were not overly amused to discover that the medic had pre-emptively sent Wheeljack and Bumblebee to the _Nemesis_. Knock Out, on the other hand, was _thoroughly_ amused—the expressions on their faces!—although he hid it well. An extended but fairly routine round of "Very sorry, sir, I didn't think to ask, sir, I _do_ technically outrank them, sir, next time I'll confer with you beforehand, sir," had eventually satisfied his two superiors.

Yes, the whole performance had been a bit tedious, but he'd successfully broken the news of Wheeljack and Bumblebee's absence—which would have been noticed sooner or later _anyway_—while protecting his position in the Autobot army. Or crew? They called themselves a _team,_ but that sounded so _sporty._

"Rah rah, go Autobots!" Knock Out sang out, transforming and speeding through the halls. He left an impressive skid of tar in the common room (as the bots called their makeshift lounge) as he squealed to a halt. Bulkhead and Arcee not only looked up as he transformed, but also shifted together to hide the table behind them; when they saw it was Knock Out, they relaxed and stepped apart again.

Knock Out smelled trouble in progress and was appropriately intrigued. "And what are yooou doing?"

"Nothing! Not anything special. Just fixing some . . . stuff," Bulkhead said, guilt written all over his broad face.

_"Someone_ sat on one of the handheld scanners," Arcee said, a slight quirk of her lips suggesting she wasn't sure whether to be more annoyed or amused.

"It was an accident!" Bulkhead protested.

"Yeah, Arcee, it could've happened to anyone!" came Miko's voice. Knock Out looked around and located her standing near Bulkhead's elbow. Jack was sitting on the table pretending he knew enough about Cybertronian circuitry to help fix the machine. Adorable.

"Well, don't let me stop you." Knock Out moved over to the table, resting his arms on it.

"Hey." Miko elbowed Jack in the ribs. "Did I ever tell you that Knock Out is my arch-nemesis?"

"Only . . . a lot," Jack said. "Like maybe a thousand times or so."

He cast a cautious glance at the shiny red mech. _Jack _knew that the whole "arch-enemy" thing was just some elaborate game to Miko, but had she ever bothered to explain the rules to Knock Out? A game that involved shouting insults up at a thirty-foot tall ex-Decepticon just seemed kind of chancy, and no, Jack was _not_ a 'Jackrabbit' for saying that, no matter what Miko said! But then again, Raf seemed okay with Knock Out too—not _friends_ with him, but not scared of him either—so maybe the former 'Con really wasn't a danger anymore.

_Anyway, _Jack thought, _it's not like he's gonna do anything with Arcee and Bulkhead around. And as long as Miko doesn't do anything dumb—_

"Your time has come, Decepticreep! Prepare to meet your maker!" Miko charged across the table, aiming a roundhouse kick at the red bot.

"Miko!" Jack yelped. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Arcee tense. Bulkhead just looked resigned.

Knock Out shifted to get a better view of the human who had just kicked the silver metal of his elbow joint. "Nice job, fleshie. I almost felt that."

"C'mon, put 'em up!" She feinted and shadowboxed.

"Shoo, fly, don't bother me."

"What? Disengage the enemy? Neveeeer!" She punched him in the arm, then winced and tried to shake the pain out of her hand. _"Ow."_

"Miko," Arcee started, frowning at Bulkhead, "stop pestering Knock Out."

"Not until he shows some _fight!_ Rawr!"

_Did she just ask a Decepticon to show some fight?_ Jack thought numbly, watching Miko kick at the Cybertronian again. Her foot swung within inches of his shiny red finish but—Jack felt clammy with relief—didn't actually make contact. Knock Out still hadn't moved.

"Shoo," he repeated, his optics half-closed and his voice firm.

The girl stood back, crossing her arms. "What's _with_ you today? Did your fun-tank spring a leak?"

"I'm shocked that you think a reliable, harmless, _responsible_ Autoboticon such as myself would do anything so gauche as to squash a little organic bug." Knock Out leaned forward, smiling a little too sweetly. "I'm sure Commander Magnus has taught me better than _that._ Well. _Fairly_ sure . . ."

"Hey Miko," Jack said hastily, "can you help me untangle these wires?"

Miko grumbled under her breath, but she walked over to assist. "Well, that was a bummer," she complained to Jack. "Usually he swats back or something."

"He swats _back?_ Miko, _that is not a good thing. _Have you seen the length of his claws? Have you seen how they're, you know, _incredibly sharp?"_

"Relax, Jackrabbit, it's no big deal."

"I just don't think Bulkhead would be very happy about it if you got hurt," Jack said, trying a different tack.

"Look, _you_ may have the mom-bot for a partner but I landed a _Wrecker._ And he knows a little danger adds some spice to life!"

"Arcee is not the mom-bot," Jack retorted. He glanced over at the Cybertronian; Knock Out had at last deigned to help fix the datapad and was pointing out something on the main circuit board as Bulkhead handed him a tiny soldering iron. Arcee joined in the conversation from time to time, but mostly she watched the other two bots, and her focus became more intent whenever Knock Out happened to glance towards the two humans.

Okay, she could be a little over-protective. But she was _not _the mom-bot.

"I'll bet she told you he was a big scary 'Con, didn't she?" Miko said smugly. "That's why you're so scaaared."

"I'm not scared, I'm sensible!"

She crooked her hands into claws and hunched her shoulders. "Oooo, he's going to eeeat you, ooooo—"

"What _are_ you little skinjobs doing over there?" Knock Out set down the soldering iron to gaze at them. "If you're about to purge your tanks, Miko, be kind enough to face away from me."

Miko opened her mouth, and Jack could just picture her telling him exactly what they'd been talking about. So he jumped in first.

"Hey! So!" The red and black optics shifted to him. Jack let his arms swing uncomfortably. "Sooo, how are you liking Team Prime?"

"The atmosphere is very congenial," Knock Out said, looking amused.

"That's good. Cool." Jack had no idea why he felt so embarrassed, but Miko's stifled giggles definitely were _not_ helping. "Must be nice for everyone, having a medic around and, uh . . . um . . ."

He broke off because Knock Out was pointing a very sharp index finger at him, and despite being far from his reach, that fact made Jack very, very uncomfortable.

"I know you from somewhere," Knock Out said, his gun-metal grey finger waving a bit as he took in the human from head to toe.

"Ahem." Arcee raised an eyebrow. "Jack, this is Knock Out. Knock Out, this is Jack. My human partner who has been around for years and whom you've seen _many times."_

"Yes, _yes._ But I know him from somewhere else." Knock Out leaned his chin on his hand, contemplating the boy.

"Maybe the time you and your friends kidnapped us and used us as hostages for the Omega Lock," Jack said, crossing his arms.

"No, that's not it. "

"Or when you almost skewered me with a giant _drill_ on the _Nemesis."_

Knock Out continued to stare at him as though he were a puzzle to be solved. "Nnnnooo . . ."

"Or when you broke into a street race and almost killed me and Bumblebee."

Knock Out looked mildly surprised. "That was you?"

Jack stared at him open-mouthed, offended.

"It beats me how you can watch so much TV and still be so bad at ID-ing humans, Knock," Bulkhead said.

"So much? We can't even get a signal up here," the medic complained. "Anyway, they film them from down here," Knock Out leaned over to hold his hand near the floor, "whereas I'm looking down at the top of their furry little heads from up here." He raised his hand to his own eye level. "The real question is how Optimus and Ultra Magnus manage to tell them apart. Myself, I go by the voices a lot." This seemed to draw Knock Out's attention back to Jack. "I'll remember where I've seen you. Sooner or later."

"Great. Terrific." The medic would realize he was mistaken eventually, Jack hoped. Unless Knock Out was thinking of the time he'd been hit by that train in the subway? Jack had just been along for the ride, though, it wasn't like he'd personally aimed the train at him or anything. Whatever. If Knock Out was really that bad at identifying humans, he was probably thinking of someone else entirely. Jack hoped so. There was just something unnerving about that searching look . . .

Footsteps in the corridor prompted Bulkhead and Arcee to once again close ranks in front of the broken scanner. They exchanged guilty glances as Ultra Magnus entered. To Jack, the strange part was not the appearance of the big blue and white Autobot, but the fact that he was carrying . . .

_"Mom?!"_

"Jack, Miko." June Darby looked from one to the other from her perch on Ultra Magnus' hand, her lips pressed in a thin line and a grim look in her eyes that Jack knew all too well. "I want the truth and I want it right now. Do you have _any idea_ where Rafael is?"

"Mom . . . I . . . no, he's got the flu, remember?" Jack sputtered.

Miko nodded in agreement. "He had to miss the field trip and everything. I told him I'd take lots of pics for him, though."

"He does _not_ 'got the flu'," June fumed. "He told his mother he was sleeping over at _our_ house, Jack. She came over because he forgot his backpack and I said you were out getting burgers." She sighed in frustration and worry. "He's not at his house, he's not at our place, he's not with Ratchet, and if he's not _here_ . . ." She rubbed her hand down her face. "Where could he BE?"

"Rafael—you mean Raf?" asked Knock Out. "He's with Bumblebee, of course." He looked from June to Commander Magnus. "Why? Is there a problem with that?"


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

There was, apparently, a problem with that.

"How could you think this was acceptable? How could you not have _mentioned _it?" Ultra Magnus slammed his palms against his desk, making the datapads jump.

"I didn't think it was important!" Knock Out protested, spreading his hands. "Bumblebee always totes his human around when he's on Cybertron, doesn't he? It's expected!"

"And _why_ was he on Cybertron?" June demanded, pacing the desk. "For that matter, how did he get to Cybertron?"

"I bridged him here. Bee said—and I agreed—that his computer skills would be an asset—"

"And I will be having a long talk with Bumblebee when he returns, be assured of that. But Knock Out." Disappointment and anger simmered somewhere under Prime's words, and Knock Out was not sure which made him cringe. "You truly did not see a problem with sending Raf into danger?"

"There's no danger, it's just—"

"Oh no, no danger at all." Ultra Magnus' optics were blazing a brighter blue than usual. "A week's drive from here, out of range of our communicators, on an abandoned Decepticon vessel. What could go wrong?"

"If you'll just let me explain—"

"You can't explain away how you sent a child into harm's way," June Darby said, clenching her hands around the turquoise fabric covering her arms.

"But he's not really a child," Knock Out objected. "Look, I wouldn't have sent Miko out there, but—"

June buried her face in her hand. "Miko is _older_ than Raf!"

"Yes, but Miko is a youngling and Raf isn't." He looked up at Optimus and Ultra Magnus, saw no sympathy there, and dropped his optics to stare at Magnus' hook instead, hands gripping the sides of the chair. "Like Smokescreen and Bumblebee. They came from the same cohort, they're the same age, but Bumblebee is _clearly_ older._"_

Optimus' sigh seemed to last forever and the anger in his blue optics had been superseded by exhaustion as he gazed down at the medic. Another surge of guilt syruped through Knock Out's systems, only to be burned off by a roil of anger. These weren't even Decepticon concepts, damn it, they were _Cybertronian concepts._ Maybe there wasn't an Earth word that was quite the equivalent to the Cybertronian term for "the sum of chronological age and maturity and the amount of slag a bot's been through", but that wasn't _his _fault. They had no right to look at him that way.

"If you can't understand the simple necessity of keeping civilians out of harm's way," Ultra Magnus was saying.

"Oh yes, I can see why you wouldn't want Raf on the _Nemesis_ compared to, oh, every _other_ time he's been on the _Nemesis_," Knock Out snapped. "Problem number one, no Decepticons on board trying to kill him, how dull. Problem number two, no chance of the warship crashing, becoming sentient and trying to offline him, et cetera. Problem number three, he's accompanied by two Autobot warriors, which I know goes against the Autobot ideal of 'throw the squishies into danger, I'm sure it will turn out all right somehow'—"

"Knock Out." Prime's voice wasn't loud, wasn't even sharp, but there was a timbre in it, an underlying authority, that stopped Knock Out as effectively as any roadblock. "Those incidents were precipitated by necessity. We were at war. Sending our human friends into danger was never something I did lightly."

"Sending under-equipped personnel on a _pleasure jaunt_ is completely different," Ultra Magnus agreed.

"Hardly a pleasure jaunt, _sir,_ and I didn't 'send' him, he asked to go. He _begged _to go."

June stopped her pacing to glare up at him. "And as the adult in that situation, you should've said no!"

"He is with Bumblebee!" He enunciated each syllable as he leaned forward. "In perfectly safe servos!"

"Bumblebee is not immune from lapses in judgment," Optimus said in his quiet rumble.

Ultra Magnus nodded, and if he'd been a smaller bot the nod could have been described as 'prim.' "There's an occurrence of illegal street racing in his file, definitely not acceptable. And although Jack did not suffer any permanent damage in that fracas, the fact remains—"

"Wait. _What?"_ June Darby swung around and craned her neck back to confront Ultra Magnus. "What's this about Jack and _illegal street racing?"_

"It was several years ago, Nurse Darby," Optimus broke in. "I'm sure Jack has matured since the . . . incident."

"You and me, Optimus, are going to have a talk about this 'incident'. And you." She gave Knock Out a narrow look. "Bumblebee's a great bot, but he has his blind spots. I wouldn't be surprised if it was his idea to take Raf along in the first place!"

"It was _not_ Bumblebee's idea," Knock Out denied. Regardless of whether or not it was true, he knew where his loyalties lay. "And it's perfectly normal for humans in the transitional growth stages to branch out and explore—"

"By going on dates or sneaking into R-rated movies," June said. "Not by running off to explore warships on alien planets!"

"That's not what your cultural artifacts say!"

"Knock Out." Optimus sounded even more tired. "I believe we have already had some discussions regarding the veracity of human television serials."

The former Decepticon crossed his arms. "Some of them were movies."

"Knock Out," Ultra Magnus growled, stretching the final vowel. Never had the medic heard his name spoken in such a variety of unappealing ways in such a short span of time.

Optimus held up a hand to silence his Second-in-Command. "Knock Out, in light of your recent lapse in judgment, you are relieved of your duties until further notice."

Knock Out didn't say anything; it wasn't like he hadn't seen this coming. The only surprise here was that Prime was delivering the blow rather than the Commander. Still, his sensor net felt strangely disconnected from his frame as he listened.

"I'm confident this will be a temporary arrangement. I do feel that we have, perhaps, neglected to provide you with a proper grounding in human culture. I am sure we can remedy that before you return to your post." Optimus had the gall to _smile,_ like he was expecting the medic to gush his thanks_. _Knock Out poured all his energy into keeping his expression neutral.

"Doctor." Knock Out's attention snapped back to Ultra Magnus. "You are confined to quarters until further notice, understood?"

"Yes sir."

"Ratchet will assume your duties during your . . . leave of absence."

"Yes sir." He fought the desire to slip in a 'yes, my liege' just to get under the Commander's plating. Magnus had won the final hand, he'd just have to live with that.

"You will not make any attempt to contact General Bryce."

"No sir." As though he wanted to.

"Or to hinder him."

"No sir." Frag.

Magnus leaned back, satisfied with his victory. Knock Out had a vague impression of Optimus giving his Second a look of reproof—_mild_ reproof, because this was, after all, Prime—but the medic kept his attention focused on Commander Magnus. It was easier.

"Sir." _You won, look, I'm acknowledging it. Please listen to me._ "When will Bryce arrive?"

"That is not your concern, soldier."

"If you could wait until Bumblebee and Wheeljack return, it might render his visit unnecessary. Tomorrow. They'll be back late tomorrow. I preset the ground bridge."

"I repeat, it is not your concern. Bryce is already impatient."

"Just one more day, Commander. I strongly believe they'll find something worthwhile. In fact, I'm sure of it."

Magnus eyed him. "You're sure, are you?"

Knock Out relaxed a little. He had lost a battle, but he fully intended to win the war. _"Very_ sure." He smiled. _"Sir."_


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

It would have been nice to think that Knock Out's concern for the protoforms occupied his thoughts, overriding all other concerns. It would also have been untrue.

Despite not seeing eye to eye with Ultra Magnus (literally _or _figuratively), he was confident that the Commander would be willing to stave off Bryce for a few days, even on a gamble. And Knock Out knew this was one gamble which would have a massive payout. No, upon reflection, the pre-forms and protoforms were not in any more danger than before.

This left Knock Out free to spend his time focusing on other pleasant topics, like being demoted and confined to quarters. The first instance was humiliating, the second was boring. The boredom was currently his top concern.

"Why didn't I stock up on datapads when I had the chance? I have nothing to _read,"_ he lamented, wandering from the bedroom to the main room and back again. No private washroom in his quarters, sadly, although he did keep a selection of waxing and buffing supplies here. But after a few hours had passed, he had been forced to admit that even the most gorgeous and deserving of chassis could only be buffed and polished for so long. And his supply of wax really _was_ running low.

"Hmm . . ." He tapped his finger to his chin as he peered into the cupboard that housed his cosmetic supplies. Everything was neatly arranged, jars of carnauba wax stacked here, a perfectly folded pile of polishing rags there, and two little hooks on the inside of the door to hold his buffer. After a moment, he started pulling everything out (except the buffer) and setting them on the sideboard. He could take inventory, maybe find an even more efficient way to store everything . . .

He was just holding up a tattered cloth between two claws, eyeing it critically, when the door chime went off.

"It's open," the medic called. The automated door ground open at its usual snail's pace, but Smokescreen squeezed through the gap before it was even halfway open.

"Hey, K.O., I just heard what happened! At least, I heard _something_ happened, but nobody seems to know what except Ultra Magnus, and he's not talking. Are you okay? Is Raf okay? Bulkhead said it had something to do with Raf."

"Fine on both counts. Raf's with Bee."

Smokescreen's shoulders slumped forward as he loosed a sigh of relief. "Oh, _that's _all right, then."

Knock Out felt vindicated.

"I thought you might be hungry, so I brought you this." Smokescreen proffered an energon cube.

"Oh . . . thank you." He couldn't keep the surprise off his face as he took it. Raw energon was abundant on Cybertron, but currently their only means of processing it was one small portable converter, operated by a hand-crank. Since they all processed their own energon—and since Smokescreen complained the loudest about the tedious task—the gift a generous one.

"It's no biggie. So is Raf on the _Nemesis_? I guess that's why you're grounded, huh?"

"Grounded?"

"Shut in here."

"Ah. Yes. Confined to quarters."

"That's not fair. It wasn't your fault." Smokescreen frowned, his mouth forming a little pout. "Should I turn myself in?"

"For what? Why?"

"Well, as president of the Cabal," Smokescreen saluted, Autobot style, with his fingers held stiff, shading his eyes, "I was the one responsible for sending Bee and Wheeljack out there in the first place."

Ridiculous brat. Really now. "No, don't tell them anything, Mr. President. They don't know about the Cabal; let's keep it that way."

"But then you're just stuck in here. That's so boring!"

"I'll tell you what, you can bring me something to keep me entertained," Knock Out said graciously. He was about to ask for some datapads when he had another idea. "Dig up that game of Bumblebee's, I'll see if I can fix it. A little thanks for making the journey."

"What about Wheeljack?"

Knock Out blinked. "What about him?"

" . . . right."

Smokescreen fetched the game and left after a few not so subtle hints from the medic. Knock Out finished reorganizing his cupboard and had just turned his attention to the game when someone knocked on the door.

"Come in." Knock Out pushed the table and chairs back to make room for Bulkhead. Had to be him. He never could remember to ring the chime.

"Hey, Knock. Uh, you okay? Ultra Magnus kind of dragged you out of there."

"Thank you for reminding me," Knock Out said drily. "I'm fine. And before you ask, Raf's fine too."

"Oh, good. 'Cause I heard some crazy rumor that he's on the _Nemesis."_

" . . . why are you here?"

"Well, I figured you'd be hungry, so . . . tada!" He held out an energon cube.

Knock Out's lips twitched a little as he accepted it. "Much appreciated."

"Miko wanted to come too but . . ." Small flakes of green paint twirled to the floor as Bulkhead scratched the back of his helm. "Big Blue said no."

"So apparently I should be thanking him too," he said lightly. Really? What did Magnus think he was going to _do_ to the human brats, eat them?

"She sent along this, though." Bulkhead held out something small and glowing, contained in a frilled metallic wrapper.

"An energon treat?"

"Yeah, she stole it from Ultra Magnus' latest batch."

"Well." It seemed rather large compared to the scrawny glitch-mouse that was Miko and he found himself wondering how she'd carried it. It was also, he noted, covered in a fine layer of dirt, as though it had been dropped a few times in transition. "Tell her that was very . . . enterprising."

"Will do. And don't worry—I'm sure this will blow over soon."

"Hmm, yes." After Bulkhead left he stowed the energon cube under his berth and tossed the treat in the waste bin. But he didn't bother closing his door. Sure enough, by the time he returned Arcee was lingering in the doorway.

_This is becoming quite the thoroughfare._ _I should open up a toll booth._

"Hey," Arcee said, then lapsed into silence as she held out an energon cube. He accepted it in equal silence, invited her in with a gesture, and pushed the cube under his berth with the others. She had settled in a chair by the time he returned to the main room.

"Optimus and Ratchet filled me in," she said. "On everything."

So she was acting as Third-in-Command for once. "I'm sure that was a meeting full of interesting expletives, Warrior."

She lifted an eyebrow, suspicious, as though she suspected he was mocking her rather than simply addressing her by her rank. Autobots. There was no pleasing them.

"Ratchet did say something about reformatting you into a hang glider," she said, "but they're more frustrated than angry. You could bring these things up before they reach a crisis point, you know."

His eyes narrowed a little. "They haven't _reached_ a crisis point."

"Fast approaching one, wouldn't you say?"

"No. I have—" He caught himself. "—every confidence in Team Prime's ability to cobble together a last minute, feel-good solution."

"One currently located on the _Nemesis_?" She crossed her arms. "Don't give me the faux surprised look; you wouldn't have sent them there if you didn't have something specific in mind. So what is it? Something left over from Shockwave's cloning experiments?"

"I like how you immediately assume that anything useful would belong to _Shockwave,"_ he snorted, crossing his arms. "And, no, despite your justifiable respect for Decepticon engineering, I didn't have any _particular_ device in mind. Sorry to disappoint."

She still looked suspicious, but shrugged. "Fine. Don't tell. Oh, by the way . . . June might come by at some point."

"June? Oh—the human femme."

"Right. She's interested in the kind of exploits the kids have gotten up to . . . "

"Unfortunately I have nothing to share with her in that respect," he said blandly, "having been on the other side for most of the war." You scratch my back, I scratch yours.

"Right," Arcee said again, eyeing him. She paused on the threshold. "Try talking to someone."

He leaned in the doorway once she was gone, rolling. Ah yes, 'talk about your feelings,' the Autobot answer to every problem. He could just picture their training manual:

_Scenario:_ A forced march will allow you to reach a beleaguered city-state before the Decepticons surround it, but you will lose some bots in the process. A regular pace will keep all members of your platoon alive, but you may arrive too late. What do you do?

_Answer:_ Talk about your feelings.

_Scenario:_ The Decepticons have flanked you. What do you do?

_Answer:_ Talk about your feelings.

_Scenario:_ A Decepticon missile is about to take off your face. What do you do?

_Answer:_ Talk about your feelings.

"Knock Out," came a familiar, grim voice. The red grounder looked up.

"Why, Commander Magnus, _sir,_ how good of you to darken my doorstep." The Commander had brutally defeated him at his own game, but Knock Out found himself regarding the larger bot with a certain degree of, if not affection, then at least esteem. For all his faults, Magnus had never yet tried to leverage Knock Out into replacing strategy with emotions. "Come in. I think you'll just fit."

"Hey, what am I?" a second voice asked, wry. "Chopped liver?"

Knock Out finally noticed June Darby, cupped in the palm of the Commander's good hand. "Oh. And you. Yes. Well, come in."

Ultra Magnus did fit through the doorway. Just.

June spoke first. "First of all, I'm still furious with you for sending Raf to some Decepticon rattletrap," she began. "Second, I brought some reading material for you."

Knock Out crouched and put out his palm, face down. The pamphlets and books the human femme dropped onto his fingers were . . . well . . . human-sized. He flipped one of the books open with a claw and found large, brightly colored, and informational pages regarding the human reproduction and stages of growth.

"Hmm, I'll be sure to squint my way through these," he lied. He was never reading them ever. Organic reproductive systems were appalling and oozed filth at every opportunity. Except the system of organic aerials. Eggs. Gooey on the inside, perhaps, but at least the exterior was aesthetically pleasing.

"What's this?" Ultra Magnus interjected, picking up the gamepad from the table.

"A game of Bumblebee's, Commander. I'm fixing it."

"Hrm." Apparently this fell far enough into the category of not-fun to satisfy him. "Good. Keep yourself busy and out of trouble." _For once_ was the unspoken post-script.

_"Speaking_ of trouble," June said with authority in her voice, "I'm _still_ waiting to hear more about this illegal street race that my son was involved in. I understand you were one of the competitors, Knock Out; maybe you can shed some light on the matter."

_"Moi?"_ Knock Out put on a regretful expression. "There's really nothing I can tell you, June Darby. I spent most of the race trying to shoot out Bumblebee's tires."

"His tires?" Magnus said drily.

"Well, any part of him that was in my sights, really. The point is, I didn't pause to grill him on who his passenger was and did he know he'd missed his curfew. Really, I didn't even realize he had a passenger until quite late in the race."

"I realize that," the dark-haired human said. "What I want to know is how many times was he out there, risking his life for an adrenalin rush? How many races? How many nights?"

"Only the one time, as far as I'm aware."

"Just as Optimus Prime said," Ultra Magnus said, faintly reproachful.

"It never hurts to check with a second source, Ultra Magnus," she said, relaxing. "All right, I believe you. Thank you, Knock Out."

He gave a gracious shrug. "Of course."

"Knock Out." Ultra Magnus looked down at him. "General Bryce's visit will take place three days from now, after which you will be free to move about the base."

Three days. Plenty of time. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"And you're to stay away from him while he's here."

"However will I bear it?" he said with a bit of a sneer. "Am I to believe that you'll allow that skin-job—"

"Ex_cuse_ me, human in the room!"

"—to wander Cybertron even if we find more creative ways of acquiring vehicles?"

"That has yet to be determined," Ultra Magnus replied, his expression as neutral as it ever got—dour, but his eyebrows only lowered in his _default_ frown, not his _angry_ frown. "There are various factors to be considered."

"Of course. Aren't there always."

Ultra Magnus wheeled and attempted to pace, only to be hampered by the relatively small size of the room compared to his stature. "Just remember to stay away from him, soldier," he growled.

"Reading you loud and clear, _Commander._ I'll resist the urge to rush the human, or whatever it is you're worried I'll do."

Magnus gave him a sharp look, but all he said was, "Good. I brought your ration," he added, pulling an energon cube out of a chest compartment. "A _half _ration." He gave Knock Out a stern look, waiting for an objection or show of temper.

The red mech merely took it without comment.

"Three days," Ultra Magnus reminded him, clearly thrown by the lack of response. "In your quarters."

"Yes, I understand," Knock Out said in a slow, patient tone that he knew would annoy the Commander. "Threee," he drew out the word as he held up three digits, "daaays." He made a circular motion with his hand to symbolize the sun.

"Thank you, Knock Out, that will be enough," Magnus said coldly.

"Yes _sir!"_ He gave a far too elaborate salute. "Half rations the whole time, sir?"

"Yes." Ultra Magnus gave him a pre-emptive glare. Knock Out just sighed showily.

"Is that healthy? Three days on half your usual calories? Or whatever you bots have?" June looked concerned.

"Oh, don't worry. I'll survive. _Somehow."_

The human looked even more worried; Ultra Magnus did not. "About the ground bridge. You preset the controls for tomorrow morning, correct?"

"That's right."

"Then we'll talk again after Wheeljack, Bumblebee, and Raf return," he said. The red mech nodded.

"Goodbye, Knock Out," June called, still frowning slightly in concern.

Knock Out didn't reply, just closed the controls for the door so that it slowly slid closed after Commander Magnus. He had to rearrange the energon cubes under his berth to get the latest one to fit. Half rations indeed . . .

He was not sure why the door chime surprised him, but it did. Had Magnus forgotten something? "It's open." He peered out as the door grated open. "Ah. Prime."

"Just 'Optimus' is fine, Knock Out." He sounded embarrassed. "I was wondering if I might come in."

Knock Out looked from Prime to the doorway and back again. The Autobot leader was not only taller than Ultra Magnus, but also a great deal bulkier. At some point Prime had gone from "large" to "ridiculously huge", and even now he jammed in the hall in a ridiculous pose, forced to bend his head and shoulders down to avoid scraping the ceiling.

"I honestly don't know if you'd fit," the shiny red mech said at last. "Maybe I'd better come out there. If my leash extends that far, that is?"

This little repartee left Prime looking remorseful, and Knock Out felt slightly guilty and enormously satisfied. Accepting the tacit permission, he slipped into the hallway.

"Knock Out," Prime said quietly, "I wanted to reassure you that what occurred today was . . . not personal. It doesn't change anything in my optics, about you or your place here."

Knock Out wasn't sure if he was more baffled or fascinated by Prime's words. What planet did he _live_ on where stripping someone of their rank wasn't personal? Starscream had been beaten half to death for his various assassination attempts on Megatron, but never _demoted,_ not until he utterly abandoned the _Nemesis. _And a slow tide of anger simmered through his circuits, too. To lose a gambit was one thing; to be informed that your loss was unimportant was quite another.

He kept his feelings off his face. If nothing else, the Decepticon army had taught Knock Out how to kowtow. "Of course, Prime. You have to act for the greater good _über alles_, I understand that."

"That . . . is one way of putting it." The red and blue mech frowned. He appeared to be studying Knock Out, although perhaps it was simply that he couldn't look anywhere except down, thanks to his hunched posture. "It does not preclude me from valuing individuals, however."

Knock Out simply nodded. Of course he was valuable; he was a medic.

His silence seemed to put the larger mech at a loss. He leaned lower still, unfolding one massive hand. An energon cube lay nestled in his palm, its dull grey metal offset by blue light glowing through the slots in the sides. "I thought your energy levels might be running low."

"Ah, yes." Knock Out looked at the cube for a second before picking it up and pulling it to his chest. He did not feel up to fawning. "Thank you." And then, because he knew it would please the Prime, and because his slog back to his previous position had to start somewhere: "Thank you, _Optimus."_

Optimus Prime's face lit up with that gentle, saintly smile of his and looked so close to patting Knock Out on the head that the medic hastily backed into his room.

"I'd better let you get on with things. Cybertron isn't going to rebuild itself, after all."

"No, sadly it will not." He straightened as much as was possible. "We will talk again soon, my friend."

"You are not my friend," Knock Out muttered, but only after Prime's heavy footsteps had retreated into the distance.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

"Hey Knock Out, we're back!" Bee said cheerfully, walking out of the glowing ground bridge with Raf on his shoulder and a crate carried in both servos. "We got the—Uh, Knock Out?"

The red bot wasn't in the monitor room, but a blue one was. Arcee. With one eyebrow raised and a very sarcastic look on her face.

Ohhh scrap.

"You'd better have an incredibly good explanation for this," she said.

"For this?" Bumblebee said, blue eyes wide.

"For what?" Raf asked with all the innocence he could muster.

"We just went out for a little jaunt, 'Cee," Wheeljack said.

She gave him a particularly unforgiving glare. "Seriously? That was the best you could do?" Her gaze became more sympathetic as she looked at the boy perched on Bumblebee's shoulder. "You okay, Raf?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine," he assured her, readjusting his glasses. "I was with Bumblebee."

"You, ah, don't seem particularly surprised by . . . by the ground bridge," Bumblebee ventured.

"Knock Out spilled everything," the blue two-wheeler said. "Or, correction: he spilled everything except for what he sent you for and the time you'd be back. _Somehow_ he confused midnight with mid-morning. He said the ground bridge would open ten hours from now."

The three explorers exchanged glances. "Well, you _still_ don't seem very surprised," Bumblebee said.

"Let's just say my suspicions were first aroused when Smokescreen begged me for the graveyard shift tonight. And then again when Knock Out tried to sneak in here a half hour ago."

Wheeljack chuckled. "I'll bet he wasn't happy about bein' caught out. Wish I'd been a cyber-fly on the wall for that fight."

"It's funny you should mention 'caught out' and 'not happy'," Arcee said, crossing her arms and tilting her head. "Do you see my face right now? It's not a happy face."

Bumblebee quietly snuck out of the room as an argument began to brew between Arcee and Wheeljack.

Most of the Autobots' personal quarters were in a block on the east side of the building, but Knock Out had selected a room near the medical bay, on the west side. Bumblebee had once asked him if he didn't feel, well, _lonely_ over there, all by himself, but the former 'Con had just laughed.

"I like it. I need my space," he'd said, and the fact that he seemed to mean it just worried Bee further.

"Could you get the door chime, Raf? My arms are full." Bumblebee shifted so that Raf could reach the faintly glowing button.

"Sure, Bee." The 'door chimes' were actually just standard doorbells, straight from Home Depot, jury-rigged to Autobot-sized buttons. They were one of the first things Raf had made all by himself for the Autobots, and he enjoyed a moment of quiet pride as he heard the familiar series of notes play on the other side of the door.

"Who is it?" came Knock Out's voice. Muffled. Grumpy.

"It's me, Superbee! The Bug who strikes in the night!" Bumblebee said overdramatically.

_"Bumblebee!"_ the door began to slide open, moving slightly faster than a glacier. "About . . ." One red optic peered out and sharp fingers shoved at the door, making no difference whatsoever in its speed. "About time! Is your little organic sidekick with you?"

Raf blinked a little at the question. Usually Knock Out didn't remember him until he was looking straight at him and, after that, proceeded to ignore him unless Bumblebee was very, very insistent. "I'm right here." He waved tentatively.

"Thank Primus." Knock Out sounded relieved.

As soon as the door had opened far enough, he grabbed Bumblebee by the arm and hauled him inside . . . unbalancing Raf in the process. Tripping backwards off the yellow and black Autobot's shoulder, Raf watched the world fall by in a rush of mute, undiluted terror until a silver hand snatched him out of the air.

"Oops!" Knock Out said. "Got you."

_"Knock Out!"_ Bumblebee said, finally registering what had happened. "Be _careful,_ you could have killed him! Raf, are you all right?" He reached for the teenager, but Knock Out eluded him by stepping backwards, both hands cupped around Raf, like he was a moth trying to fly away.

"I _am_ careful! I'm _always_ careful!" Raf heard him say from beyond the wall of metal fingers mazed around him. Then they were pulling apart to reveal a long, flat surface ending in a drop off; he stepped out of Knock Out's hands onto the table.

"All right, maybe I've been more careful at times," the red Cybertronian continued, "but you don't know what I've _been_ through lately."

"Raf, are you okay?" Bumblebee repeated, pushing past Knock Out.

"I'm fine," Raf said, smiling shakily.

"You see? He's fine." Knock Out looked down at Raf. "Be sure to tell that to Optimus and Magnus before your mother induces them to string me up by my own circuitry."

A wave of terror washed over Raf. "M-m-my mother's here?!"

"Yes," Knock Out said, then paused to think. "No? June Darby, that's the one I'm talking about."

"That's _Jack's_ mom! I've told you this before. If you ever listened—" Bumblebee said as Raf's heart rate gradually returned to normal.

"Human progenitors can have more than one child," Knock Out argued. "Regardless, she's here and she's on the warpath because your human went to the _Nemesis_."

"But there was nothing there," Bumblebee said blankly. "I mean, it's totally abandoned."

"I know."

"And Raf's old enough and responsible enough—"

"Bumblebee. Do you really think_ I'm_ the one who needs convincing?"

Raf sat down on the edge of a datapad. His guilt over lying and causing Ms. Darby to freak out was mitigated by a warm, fuzzy feeling in his stomach. They really thought he was mature enough for an adventure that was sure to make Miko green with envy! That felt good.

"I'm fine," he repeated. "I'll tell them. Sorry if you got into trouble over it."

Knock Out's optic ridges drew down, and if his expression was not quite hostile, the operative words were 'not quite'. "I did indeed 'get in trouble' over it. Copious amounts of trouble. More trouble than your tiny processor can comprehend."

"Knock Out . . ." Bumblebee inserted himself between the red mech and the table, protective of his human partner.

"Maaaybe I should go find Jack's mom before she worries anymore," Raf suggested with a shade of nervousness in his voice.

"Good idea." Bumblebee held out his hand and carefully set the boy on the floor.

"I'm just telling the truth!" Knock Out insisted, but he slapped the door panel and let Raf into the hallway without any further complaints.

"So what's all this about getting into trouble over Raf?" Bumblebee asked as the door slid closed again.

"Later." The red mech made slight, downward, settling gestures with spread fingers. "I'll tell you later. Where's Wheeljack? Did he blow himself to smithereens?"

"He's busy getting chewed out by Arcee."

"Hmph. Been there, done that." Knock Out waved away Wheeljack's troubles and tilted his head hopefully. _"Please_ tell me the mission was a success."

"A huge success!" Bumblebee heaved the crate onto the table and pulled the lid open. "You really didn't skimp when it came to cosmetic supplies, huh? We actually had to leave some behind; we couldn't carry them all. But we brought back a little of everything."

Knock Out's face lit up as he gathered an armful of waxes, washes, and polishing cloths, literally pulling them to his chest. "Ohhh, how I've dreamed of this day," he crooned, apparently addressing the canisters cradled in his arms. Most of them were labeled in English, Spanish, German, or (in a few cases) Portuguese. Cybertronian supplies were impossible to get anymore, but Knock Out had no qualms about using imports.

"Now remember, you promised to share," Bumblebee said, waggling a finger.

"I'll share, I'll share." Knock Out reluctantly let the supplies tumble back into the crate. "Nice job, Spec Ops. Now about the other thing . . . ?" He turned away from the crate, leaning forward expectantly.

"The other thing. Right." Bumblebee dug a datastick out of his arm compartment and turned it over in his fingers. "We found the console just fine . . ."

"Mm-hmm, mm-hmm, yes?" Knock Out plucked the datastick out of Bumblebee's servos, his eyes dancing over the device as he twirled it in his fingers.

Bumblebee hesitated before blurting in a rush, "And we think that we can get the computer up and running in a few weeks."

Knock Out's jaw dropped and the datastick fell to the floor with a clatter. "A few weeks? A few _weeks?!"_

"Knock Out, I'm sorry, but it was heavily damaged. We did what we could, okay?"

"No, not okay! Not okay at all!" Knock Out clutched his head, his fingers splayed around the sharp spike of his helm.

"Calm down, Wheeljack said he can fix it, it'll just take time," Bumblebee soothed, reaching out to pat the red grounder's arm. But Knock Out jerked away.

"We don't have _time,_ Bumblebee!" He paced a few steps before swirling around, eyes blazing. "How could you do this to me?!"

Bumblebee took a step back, eyes cycling wide. "How could I do what?"

_"Fail!"_ Knock Out all but screamed, foam flecking from his mouth as he nearly banged his helm against Bumblebee's. "After I trusted you!"

"Okay, let's talk about trust!_"_ Bumblebee's voice rose and he wasn't retreating an inch. "I can't believe you! I dropped everything and ran off to the middle of nowhere on your say-so, and this is how you act? You wouldn't even tell me why, but I went! For you! Because you asked me!"

"And did I ask you to haul your little _pet_ along or was that all your idea? 'Oh yes, Knock Out, it's all right. Oh yes, Knock Out, he's old enough.'"

"He's not a pet! And he is old enough!"

"Like slag he is!" The red mech threw his arms in the air and stalked into the other room.

"Knock Out, you get back here and—Knock Out!" He pursued him in a rapid circuit around the berth before the red mech stomped furiously back into the main room, with Bumblebee following him like an angry shadow. "Are you ever going to tell me what this is all about?"

"No," Knock Out snarled, "because it doesn't _matter_ anymore, just like it doesn't matter that I've been humiliated, just like it doesn't matter that I'm stuck here, just like it doesn't matter—"

The yellow and black bot grabbed his arm and Knock Out's own momentum swung him around. "For once could you just tell me what's bothering you without all the dramatics?" Bumblebee said, somewhere between pleading and demanding.

"The dramatics? The _dramatics?_ The DRAMATICS?"

"Yes, the dramatics!" Bumblebee shouted, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. "The whole Decepticon I-can't-tell-you-but-I'll-blame-you-anyway THING that you do _all the time!"_

"Get your filthy Autobot hands off me before you scuff my paint!"

"Oh, wouldn't that be a tragedy! You might have to dig into the two thousand kinds of beauty supplies you made me haul back!" Bumblebee shoved the crate towards the shiny red medic, sending the box screeching across the table.

Knock Out grabbed rim of the crate in both hands and hauled; a glittering cascade of glass canisters and bright labels tumbled between them for a moment before splintering across the floor.

"I didn't send you for the fragging supplies! I sent you for the FILE!"

Bumblebee shielded his face before taking an aggressive step forward. "I couldn't GET the file, the computer was BROKEN!"

"Well, you should've found a way to fix it, _Bumblebee!"_ Knock Out snarled back, somehow making his very name an insult.

"Would you calm DOWN?"

"Don't!" Knock Out raged, jabbing the Autobot with his finger. "Don't tell me what to do, and don't tell me to calm down! I'm perfectly calm, I'm—_ow!"_ He pivoted away, pulling his hand to his chest.

"What? What is it _now?"_ When the medic just turned away further, Bumblebee crossed his arms. "You broke a nail, didn't you?"

"I don't have nails, I have _claws,"_ Knock Out hissed, his right hand curled in towards his chassis and his left hand cradling it. After a moment he turned around, a pout on his face has he held out his servo to show where the narrow tip of his index finger had snapped, leaving a thin trickle of energon dabbling down his finger.

Bumblebee rolled his optics to the ceiling and heaved a sigh. "I've never understood," he said, rummaging through a drawer and picking out a cloth and a small bottle, "why you have such impractical hands."

"They aren't impractical, they're beautiful, elegant, and precise. _Ow."_

Bumblebee stopped dabbing with the cloth to look at him. "You know it needs antiseptic."

"Did I _say_ it didn't need antiseptic? I didn't. I just said ow. Because it _hurts,"_ he added in a self-pitying tone.

Bumblebee rolled his eyes as he reached for a roll of holo-foil bandages. "How did you ever survive on the battlefield?"

"I dodged a lot." He watched narrowly as Bumblebee's servo orbited his finger, pulling a comet tail of silver bandages after it. "Not too tight."

"Fine." He rolled his hand the other way to loosen them. "So what happened?"

Knock Out's fingers curled inward a little and his hand shifted as though he might draw it back. But he didn't. He kept his focus on the silver bandages as he started to talk.


End file.
